The Seven Things He Stole From Me
by Skylaangelwings
Summary: There were seven things he stole from me. I hadn't noticed until it was too late, until all I had left were the memories of spectral otherworldly eyes and that sly smirk that dimpled his left cheek and crinkled his aristocratic nose. He was a thief who'd bit by bit, year by year, broken down the walls I'd built around myself.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi, sorry for the break readers I've been swamped with work (both part-time and academically) but I've had the idea (and most of these chapters) in my files for ages! I'm planning on publishing one chapter per week leading up to the New Year. As always, I welcome feedback and I hope you enjoy :)**

There were seven things he stole from me. I hadn't noticed until it was too late, until all I had left were the memories of spectral otherworldly eyes and that sly smirk that dimpled his left cheek and crinkled his aristocratic nose. He was a thief who'd bit by bit, year by year, broken down the walls I'd built around myself. The bubble of naivety which separated my optimistic ideology from the harsh reality of the grey shadowing my black-and-white world. For he lived within these shadows, the moral ambiguity where your own values were brought into question. And he'd inadvertently led me by the hand to peer through the shadows, stuck between both darkness and light. Wrong and right.

The first thing he stole was innocuous. A simple tool. Something meaningless, small and infantile.

He stole my quill.

I had been sitting in classroom the first day of school at the Hogwarts Academy for Wizards and Witches. Excitement bubbled like the champagne I'd glimpsed through my mother's flutes in my stomach. At last! The time had come for my intellect and eidetic memory to be put to good use. I would prove the bullies in my primary school yard wrong. Show them up by becoming the brightest witch of my generation, competing with the others until no one cared about how stuck-out my two front teeth were nor how bushy my frizzy hair became. I craved the admiration of my peers and the respect which came in hand-in-hand with being a powerful young witch. At Hogwarts Tommy Brown could no longer sneer at my appearance and shove the books from my hands. No longer would I be forced to endure his taunts of me being 'weird' and 'ugly'. No longer would I feel like the silly little girl next door. An outcast. A freak.

The excitement coiled with my anxiety, churning in the pit of my gut. Hogwarts was absolutely magnificent. The arching ceilings were sculpted to perfection, the magical stone stairs and the funny-looking robes which wizardkind wore were all charming to the eye. Yet even in a school so vast and accepting, there were still issues of prejudice spread into the minds of the upperclassmen and 'Purebloods'. It was a ridiculous notion that blood could be pure or tainted through magical dilution. As backwards as the antiquated beliefs of dark-skinned people being inferior to white muggles in non-magical history. Or how women had once been treated (and still sometimes were) second-class citizens. It was stupid and ignorant to believe that something like parent's capacity of magic would affect a magical child. The rude awakening that stupid and ignorant bullies existed in the Wizarding World as well was something which motivated me even more to achieve greatness. Yet when I met _him_ my naivety began to shatter even more.

He looked like a fairytale prince. His hair was snow white and slicked back as though he would be attending a formal event and his icy blue eyes were like glaciers. His robes were crisp, finely pressed and expensive I'd gathered from the fawning Slytherins who often complimented his branded attire. They flocked to his side since the moment the dirty leather hat had bellowed out "SLYTHERIN". His popularity, I then learned, was partially due to the quick response of the Sorting Hat yet mostly due to the Power of his Pureblood last-name and his father's work in the Ministry. My illusion of him being some sort of Fairytale Prince shattered the day I encountered him in class.

My pretty new quill was stolen from in front of me, whipped away by a small pale hand, dangled tauntingly between his finger and thumb. "Hey!" I cried out, reaching for my quill to snatch it back. He moved it quickly out of reach. "Must you screech like that. Your voice grates on my nerves." His voice was cool, frosty as a bitter wind in a winter storm. I frowned at the delicate-looking boy, disliking the sneer which curled on his lips. "It's my quill." I point out, matter-of-factly. "Therefore you should keep your hands off of what isn't yours." I flip my hand palm upwards to gesture for the return of my stationary. He seems genuinely confused by my refusal. I wonder briefly whether the boy has ever heard the word 'no' before now.

He holds the quill up to the light and the sneer melts from his features as he studies it. It's not an expensive quill since it was plucked from a common Barn Owl. Yet the chestnut and mahogany hues glint gold when the angle of light hits the feather just so. The boy somehow finds the secret angle and I pinpoint the exact moment he glimpses gold by the greed that sparks in his icy blue eyes.

"I want it." he states, ignoring the fact that our interaction is drawing an audience. The teacher could walk in at any time and I don't want my first Potions' lesson to be tainted by arguing with a fellow classmate. Worry clenches at my stomach swallowing my excitement with hungry jaws.

"You can't have it." I repeat, quietly now, conscientious that the teacher has still to arrive.

In a moment I often question what really happened in the following years, as his wall of cool indifference drops and a dazzling smile transforms his pretty face into something truly beautiful. In a blink of an eye the smile is gone and I'm left dazed and uncertain. I hate feeling uncertain, uncertainty does not fit well with my penchant for logic and facts. At least Tommy Brown was consistent in his hatred of me.

The wall has slammed down and he's as immovable as a slab of white marble. "Don't you know who my father is?" he sneers.

"No." I reply. A pug-faced girl titters under her breath next to me. Crabbe and Goyle look up from their desks to watch in reverence as to how their leader will react. To his credit, the blonde doesn't so much as blink in surprise at my vocal admittance of my ignorance.

"My father is Lucius Malfoy, one of the sacred twenty-eight of Purebloods, but of course you wouldn't know what that is now, would you?" His tone is patronising, his smirk as sharp as glass.

"Actually I do know what the Sacred Twenty Eight are. They're a bunch of PureBlooded bigots under the impression that inbreeding is necessary to keep their precious bloodlines 'pure'. It's absolute rubbish if you ask me." A few kids gasp in shock. Slytherin holds its breath as a collective, all except a dark-skinned boy whose black eyes sparkle with amusement and the pug-faced girl who bristles in rage. I turn my attention to the spoilt blonde who I was beginning to think was a real-life sociopath. I'd read about those once in a book. Sociopaths had limited emotions.

Ever so slowly the boy bends closer to my desk. I begin to wish I'd waited for Neville to finish his lunch so that he would be here to support me. After the train journey Neville did't strike me as the bravest of my year group but he was polite and kind-natured when he asked me if I could look for his toad Trevor with him. Usually it was a rare occurrence for me to feel threatened, especially here where the Tommy Brown's of this world wore shiny dragon-hide boots instead of scuffed Adidas trainers and boasted green-striped ties instead of dirt-encrusted nails, as they bossed around whomever they saw as their 'lessers'.

But under the spotlight of this beautiful yet cruel boy, I knew that having his undivided attention was a very dangerous position to be. I breathed a French curse word I'd picked up from my cousins over the Summer Holidays under my breath. The boy hears it from the twitching of his lip. Whether he was resisting a sneer or a smirk I'd never know.

Suddenly the door slams open and a tall man with greasy black hair, a hooked nose and billowing black robes stalks in imperiously. The young Malfoy departs swiftly from my presence and only when the Potions Professor is chastising the late arrivals (namely Neville, Harry and Ron who'd hurried in after him) in front of the entire class am I able to breathe a sigh of relief. It became quite obviously clear that this so-called prince I'd imagined was nothing but a spoilt 'pure blooded' prat who was unused to people not caving to his demands. I feel a burst of satisfaction at holding my will and righteousness in the face of such a sociopathic opponent. My smile died a swift death when I glanced over at my aforementioned opponent.

His face is turned towards the front, outwardly playing the part of the attentive young scholar, jotting down notes on a cream sheet of parchment. It's not his appearance (as pretty as he may be) which throws me off. No. It's what he clutches in his right hand which makes my face tighten in anger.

For there, between his long elegant fingers, is a mahogany and chestnut dappled quill which glints gold in the weak strain of sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2

From that day onwards I made it my priority to try and avoid the attention of one Mr Draco Malfoy and focus on much more important things such as schoolwork and maintaining my budding friendship with Harry and Ron. For the most part I succeeded in avoiding the blonde's notice. It seemed his jealousy and bitterness towards Harry spurning his friendship in First Year overshadowed whatever fleeting interest he'd displayed towards me in our first Potions lesson. I grew accustomed to the unjust slurs of 'Mudblood' that crossed the mouths of Pureblood peers who either hated me for my academic success or them stemming from my friendship with the famous Boy-Who-Lived. Or a mixture of both. What was stunning was the fact that although Slytherins were the only ones who dared to voice the 'Mudblood' label (starting from that first encounter on the Quidditch Pitch which opened up the gateways of open critique from his devoted followers), it was surprising to learn that across all Houses Purebloods usually held prejudices of those of different blood.

It was a very subtle analysis I'd gleaned from passing comments and body language. Had I been a smidge more social and a teensy bit less observant I would've missed it entirely. It was odd things really; it was the way Ron naturally abhorred magical creatures and was disdainful when he'd first learned of Hagrid's giant heritage. It was the way Lavender Brown would shake her head at Parvarti when Hermione had questioned aloud the reasons on Pureblood betrothal contracts. Parvarti's answering giggle that spoke loudly what she was thinking: 'Silly muggleborns! Isn't their stupidity funny to watch when it comes to Wizarding Culture. It's really no wonder Purebloods control the Wizengamot (Wizarding Parliament)'. It was the way which Ginny Weasley would sometimes dismiss something particularly mundane (like a muggle photograph) as 'too Muggle' or 'rather boring'. When I'd shown her the polaroid photograph of my childhood friend Daisy and I dressed up as an angel and devil respectively, she'd squinted up her freckled face and slapped the photo down on the dining room table demanding to know why the picture didn't move. I'd frowned at her in irritation, upset over her line of enquiry completely dismissing the cute Halloween costumes, musing about the hypocrisy of her not receiving a head-shake or eye roll for being ignorant of Muggle culture. After all, muggles made up the majority of the planet and had made multiple technological and medical advancements over the years.

"They're not supposed to move. Muggle photographs are supposed to capture a moment in time and freeze it so that in the future we can look back on that singular moment and reflect on it." I peered into the photograph, smiling slightly as I trace the curve of my six-year old jaw, recounting how happy I'd felt on my sugar-high beaming brightly with my best friend. Daisy had moved to Australia the following Summer and I'd been left alone again in my school. With only the haven of the library to shield me from the playground bullies.

"How muggle." Ginny muttered, scrutinising it in a way that made me feel like the photograph was somehow less good than the magical versions. The ones which would capture a few seconds of movement and sound. Then I'd felt shameful of my brief betrayal of my muggle heritage and the objects that existed within it. I'd not spoken to Ginny for a fortnight later where she'd apologised for 'whatever it is I'd done to upset you'. I'd forgiven her despite her not knowing exactly why I'd blanked her, but I never forgot the disdain that had painted her kind face when she'd looked at the Muggle-made photograph.

I don't even think the Purebloods realised what they were doing since they became fiercely protective of me whenever a Slytherin would comment on my blood dirtying their school and staining their reputations. 'Mudblood' was an awful word I was told by Ron and he'd added that tools like Malfoy deserved to rot in hell for their cruelty.

"After all you can't help what family you're born into." he'd said to me once, when we were walking down to the Black Lake to get some fresh air. The earnest expression on his face indicated he meant his words to be reassuring. In all honesty they only made me feel worse. As if he pitied me for being born in the Muggle world as though I was disadvantaged by it. In some ways he was right- the mean jibes, the subtle prejudice, the cultural traditions I sometimes slipped up on- these never would've been an issue had I been born to a Wizard and a Witch who'd read books on magic spells from an early age or bought me Wizarding trinkets for my birthday and christmas each year. But at the same time my Muggle experience meant that I learnt things that would allow me to integrate and live within muggle society. I had more opportunities available since I was taught science, maths and French from a young age. I knew how to use the Internet to order clothes or book a train ticket to and from London. I knew the intricacies of muggle media and the current events in muggle politics, sport and weather. Sometimes when I felt low I'd imagine how amusing it would be for Draco Malfoy- Pureblood Prince- to be dumped in the throng of Camden Market where him asking about blood-type would make him look like either a vampire or downright crazy.

I was still slightly resentful over his robbery of my quill.

Perhaps that was the reason I was astonished when he attempted to steal something else from me, years later when I was in my third year of school.

I was feeling like an overstretched rubber band who was braced to snap at any given moment. The time-turner was stressing me out as on top of my extra studies and the absolute crap Ron was giving me over his idiotic rat being hunted by my new cat, added with the hormones of puberty kicking in made me feel like a frazzled mess of teenage angst. The only thing that I actually enjoyed these days was finishing an essay that was due and sighing in relief. Crookshanks, my familiar, was a much-needed stress reliever as having him curled up on my lap, purring like a tractor as the tongues of flames flared in the Common Room Hearth relaxed me in a way I hadn't anticipated.

The day I was robbed by my blonde enemy was on a deceptively lovely day. The sun had made a rare appearance from beneath fluffy white clouds and the air was warm and heavy with the scent of dew and honeysuckle. I was on my way to Ancient Runes and I'd decided that by slipping out for a walk along the fields to reach the East Wing Courtyard I would simultaneously have an excuse to rewind time after my next class had finished while giving me time to harness my temper over Ron's whining about his goddamned rat. The scratty old rat was a hand-me-down pet anyway! It was hardly some new Nimbus 2001 that could not be touched in case it got scratched.

I was thinking these thoughts as I stomped through the wet grass when I stomped my way right onto a body. I knew it was a body by the way my foot met something both hard and soft and my shoe scraped mud onto some soft material. Apparently it was rich material too since the front of Malfoy's freshly pressed white shirt was now muddied under my feet. I remember smirking at the irony.

"Malfoy?" I frowned down at him, where he was lying flat in the long (and dripping wet) greenery. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" I clap my hand over my mouth in shock at my crass language and confrontational manner. In spite of my loathing of the boy, I generally ignored him or spoke to him in a civil yet derogatory manner. I'd obviously been picking up some undesirable traits from Ron Weasley despite our friendship being strained at the moment. Malfoy obviously agrees with me if his disapproving glare is anything to go by.

He flicks his eyes downwards following the muddy boot still hovering there and I hurriedly remove it. "Sorry." I mumble.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he drawls, his expression carefully blank. The surrealness of peering down at an upside down face of a sprawled out Malfoy drenched in dew and the mud from my clearance-brogues washes over me like a tidal wave. I pinch myself to check I'm not having some bizarre dream featuring a randomly submissive Malfoy. The sting of pain tells me it is real.

I take a closer look at Draco Malfoy. His platinum blonde hair is messy and flecked with pieces of grass that stick out in odd places as though he'd run his fingers through it. Although he'd ditched the hair gel, the Malfoy was still ridiculously vain and well-groomed and so he never resorted to messing up his 'perfect locks'. Godric forbid. His face, although it was pointier than in his youth as the roundness formed high cheekbones and a strong jawline, his features remained as impassive and cold as always. His shirt was muddied, wet and rumbled with the buttons in the wrong holes. His trousers and shoes only suffered from the damp.

"Honestly? I have no idea what you're doing. I've never seen you look so disorderly. I've half a mind to take a photo to preserve this rare moment." I smirked down at the boy, enjoying the power I felt having him literally at my feet.

"Don't you dare." he scowled in return, his blue eyes scorching with rage. I drop the smirk immediately, an innate sense detecting danger. It's at that moment I realise that the Slytherin Prince despises this predicament equally as much as I enjoy it. However, I feel an unwelcome understanding of his need for control. The fact that he's been spotted in a tricky situation must be gnawing at his innate craving for power and reinstalling his social hierarchy. That was just the Slytherin mindset: people divided into followers and leaders. Black and white, just as I liked things to be.

"I'm not going to take a picture." I promise, flipping my palm out in an innocent way. By the way his piercing daggers sharpen on my visage I can tell he doesn't believe me. I don't have time for this drama anyway, class starts in- I do a quick time-summoning charm with a flick of my wand- ten minutes from now. I murmur an incantation and the clock disappears.

"Shouldn't you get to class?" I blurt out, feeling unnerved about his still body and silence. It's almost as though he's a dead body (as I'd originally thought). A look of consternation crosses his face.

"Can't." He grits out from between clenched teeth. I crouch down looking for any wounds without actually touching the aggressive oddball.

"Whyever not?" I inquire.

"DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY YOU ARE A DEAD MAN!" an inhumane voice screams out. I flinch and cover my ears to muffle the sound. The 'dead man' does little more than tighten his jaw and quirk one elegant brow.

"That is the reason." he whispers. In a viper-like move his hand reaches out and encircles my wrist. He yanks me harshly to the ground until we're both spread out into the long grass to avoid detection. Footsteps trample through grass in furious jerky movements. The voice booms out another loud shout.

"MY HAIR IS FUCKING FIRETRUCK RED! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU SPIKE MY SHAMPOO YOU KNOW I HAVE THAT DEBUTANTE THIS WEEKEND AND CRIMSON DOES NOT MATCH MY SKIN TONE AT ALL! MADAM POMFREY SAID IT WOULD TAKE A WEEK FOR IT TO BE COMPLETELY REMOVED AND NOW I'M STUCK LOOKING LIKE SOME GRYFFINDORK DWEEB OR ONE OF THOSE WEASLEY RUNTS!" The high-pitched yelling cuts out when some fifth-year students argue with the voice that her screaming is disturbing their O.W.L.s revision. The voice yells words that would make the Weasley twins blush in retaliation. I use the distraction to roll on my side to face Malfoy and whisper who's shampoo bottle he'd spiked. Reluctantly admits he was trying to spike Zabini for having ducked out of a prank set against some mouthy Ravenclaw boys but Zabini had found out somehow and switched with Pansy's shampoo. Then conveniently he'd slipped Pansy information that it was somehow Draco's intention to prank her.

"Sneaky bastard." He mutters under his breath. My eyes widen at the crude language, not expecting Draco Malfoy to resort to rude language in the presence of a 'young lady'. Where were his Pureblood manners now? 'Takes one to know one' I long to mock. He's still angry though. I can tell by the twitching vein in his neck and the way his blue eyes seem to swim with mercury. The emotion reminds me that for all the masks he wears that are forged, he's still somewhat human. He can feel things like anger and betrayal. I file away this information to analyse at a later date.

"She's this mad about a ball? What exactly am I missing here?" I search for a giveaway clue but his features are carefully blank. I threaten to give away his location and, scowling crossly, he 'fesses up.

"Zabini may have revealed both her new hair colour and my part in creating the spell at an inopportune time. I am not willing to disclose any more information to you." Although his tone is stiff and icy I feel oddly comfortable sprawled next to him, laying low as we hide from his very own Wicked Witch of the West. I amuse myself with graphic imagery of a house landing on Pansy Parkinson's smug pug-nosed face. Then I wonder whether Malfoy's streak of sadism is contagious and that is the reason I'd just imagined a comical variation of someone (even someone as vain and shallow as Pansy)'s death.

The fifth-years outsmart the screeching banshee and I sigh in relief when I hear the courtyard door slam shut. The vibrations cause a ruckus with some nearby birds and I pity the poor creatures. If I was a bird I'd also be terrified of Pansy and her violent temper. I sit up dust myself off and do a couple of glamour charms to straighten out our appearances. I'm not sure why I help Malfoy with this since his disarray is practically an open invitation for me to mock and humiliate the mean person he is. And yet it's the tiny cowlick of white-blonde hair which stubbornly refuses to stay flat against his head which is what persuades me to use magic to fix him up. His clothes dry and straighten. The mud stain disappears before my very own eyes. I look at his rumpled hair and only pretend to spell that straight by using a warming charm to replicate the sensation of glamour magic. There's just something about his messy hair which makes his beauty more vulnerable. And I'm not beyond a little retribution myself from time to time.

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, hesitating, before opening his mouth to talk.

"I hope you don't expect any gratitude from me as you'll be sorely disappointed." With a subtle flick of my wand a tiny smudge of mud reappears on his shirt button. His drawling condescension makes me wish I truly had taken a photo to capture the moment.

"Of course not," I laugh, catching him by surprise. "I have plenty of satisfaction at the memory of stepping on your expensive white shirt. Not to mention your cowardice- hiding from a girl!" I omit the fact that I would've also sought shelter had I had a screeching girl like Pansy chasing me. By now I'd deduced from his mussed up hair and hastily buttoned shirt that him and Pansy had been kissing or something when Zabini had broken the news. I feel a whole other sense of respect for the Italian snake. Yet the reimagining of Parkinson and Malfoy kissing makes me feel nauseous. I banish the mental imagery.

"Are you any good at keeping secrets, Granger?" The Slytherin Prince asks me. I think back to researching and discovering the Philosopher's stone in my first year, Harry's connection with Voldemort and the illegal Polyjuice Potion I'd brewed in Moaning Myrtle's classroom last year and nod solemnly. I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key. He rolls his eyes.

"Not a word Hermione." he warns over his shoulder as he saunters away. As he meets my eyes he steals something I never thought he could steal from me. A smile. A genuine, playful toothy smile aimed at my hated rival. He turns his head away and doesn't look back.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am terribly sorry that it has taken me so long to upload; these past few months have been crazy! I planned for this story to be uploaded weekly in the lead up to New years but instead these pages have been gathering dust. In reparation I will stick to uploading weekly (although I'll likely post the next chapter sooner because it's one of my favourites and I can't wait for you to read it!). Enjoy :)**

I hadn't told anyone about that chance meeting, all those months ago, when I'd stumbled across my nemesis hiding from what I assumed was his girlfriend. If me keeping his secret had caused a glimmer of respect to dwell in his mercurial eyes, I took no notice of it. And if my smile had unsettled him into refraining me from calling me a 'Mudblood' as he substituted it with other nasty comments as I traversed the school halls, I hadn't dwelled too much on the subtle change. My mind had been too preoccupied with keeping up with my homework and saving poor Buckbeak from getting exsanguinated by those idiots at the Ministry. Fortunately all these events made the smile he'd robbed me of the farthest thing from my mind. So much so that by the time he next struck I was caught completely unaware. Deluded into a false sense of security while he remained dormant. Much like the true nature of a snake **.**

It was September, the first weekend since classes had started had rolled around and I was enjoying the free time by sitting under a (thankfully harmless) Willow tree with Harry and Ron. Quidditch had been cancelled this year in preparation for the upcoming Triwizard tournament and this meant that the boys were free to hang out and talk to about something other than 'the wronski feint' and predict which House would score more points in an upcoming match. I took advantage of the hiatus in Quidditch and smiled at the two of them as Ron dealt out another round of cards. We were playing Exploding Snap.

I breathe in the cool, crisp air and shiver slightly as I realise that the Summer warmth is fading into Autumn. I cast a warming charm around us all, glad I'd decided to wear my thick burgundy jumper over my tee-shirt, then reach for my thermos flask of hot coffee. As the liquid settles like a warm glow in my stomach I gaze at my two best friends in deep thought. The events of the Quidditch World Cup had shaken the Wizarding Community, the Death Eaters marching through the throng hiding behind their bone-white masks was an image that struck fear in the hearts of the masses. The fire and destruction was still branded across my nightmares and every time I remembered the event, the acrid stench of smoke and coppery blood lingered like a foul taste on my tongue.

I could also see the way Voldemort's followers being proactive had had an effect on my closest companions. Harry seemed a lot more cynical of the Ministry, with good enough cause, as they neglected to admit that Voldemort and his followers were a genuine threat to Wizarding society. Harry's hatred of Slytherins had grown along with cynicism and it was reflected in the way his emerald eyes glittered with hatred whenever he spotted Draco Malfoy and his nasty friends. Ron seemed to be even more repulsed by the House inhabitants since his freckled face scrunched up in loathing each time one of them gained points in class and the way he seemed tensed to fight when he passed Malfoy in the halls spoke of how deep the dislike ran. It didn't help that Lucius Malfoy had his hands dipped in many pies at the Ministry and the older blonde wizard used every opportunity to put his co-worker, Arthur Weasley, down. It really wasn't fair how Mr Weasley had to endure Mr Malfoy's harsh comments about his wages and family while the older man flaunted his wealth and ideas of superiority shamelessly. Harry and Ron both thought that Draco was a mini-replica of his father and would turn out to be a Death Eater in order to follow in his father's footsteps. Despite the way his son reeked of aristocracy and played the 'spoilt Pureblood prat' role to a T, I wasn't so sure he would become like his father. However, I never voiced this as I was unable to explain the reason behind this thought. It was more of a gut feeling which defied the logical choice of where he would end up as shown by his actions at school. And if there was one thing I disliked more than the injustice of having elitists at the top of the hierarchy of power, it was anything that was deemed illogical.

I took another sip of coffee with one hand while I scraped my pile of cards closer with the other. The current topic of conversation startles me out of my thoughts;

"-that's why I was wondering what the two of you thought about Lavender." Ron finished.

"What about Lavender?" I questioned, having missed the explanation entirely.

Ron flicks me on the nose in reprimand for me not listening. I swat his arm away.

"Sorry, sorry! My mind was a million miles away," I hurriedly add. Harry laughs and says

"At least you weren't buried in one of your books!" I send him a mock-frown, pretending to be offended. Ron rolled his eyes but grins in a playful way so that I know I'm forgiven.

His cheeks infuse with scarlet and he runs a hand through his ginger hair.

"I was just saying that I, uh… I kinda um like Lavender and I was wondering what you two think. I'm not sure if she likes me and I was hoping that you could maybe find out for me, 'Mione, since you room with her and all." My face is carefully blank as I digest this. Ron was crushing on _Lavender_? I wasn't jealous since I regarded both my best friends as my brothers but I still felt shocked over the idea that Lavender had captured Ron's interest.

To me, Lavender Brown was the type of girl who tried too hard. Now that might've sounded hypocritical since I tried hard in lessons and exams and I'd even started going running in the mornings to get my body into good shape. But Lavender tried too hard for something which she needed to come to terms with herself: validation. She was the type of girl to use push up bras and shorten her skirt hems until boys could glimpse her lacy black thong whenever she bent over. She woke up an hour earlier than breakfast, while I was tying up the laces on my trainers for running, to put on her false eyelashes and put on all these gloopy makeup products. I didn't care whether a girl wore makeup or not (on special occasions I liked getting glammed up with Ginny although usually I couldn't be arsed to deal with makeup for school), it was the fact that Lavender felt too insecure about her beauty that she went to all this effort to look good so boys would pay her more attention. She seemed a nice enough girl when she wasn't gossiping or giggling with Parvarti, but the whole high-maintenance personality aspect and the mean comments she would use when she felt jealous of another girl made me uncomfortable spending too much time around her.

However, due to all this effort to gain validation, she had perhaps unknowingly also gained a reputation across our year group. I'd heard Theodore Nott and Ernie Macmillan refer to her as a 'slut'. I didn't agree with slut-shaming, even if Lavender handed out 'free blowjobs like candy' (not my words, this was how Nott had justified calling her a slut when I'd threatened to tell a teacher) but I seriously doubted that Lavender would be able to properly date another person with such low self-esteem. Which was why my pause may have been a bit too long when Ron asked about snooping on the girl and reporting back to him. I didn't really think he'd be very happy if I told him that the honey-blonde kept a stash of condoms in her top drawer or if I mentioned that she seemed to have severe daddy issues ever since her parent's divorce.

"'Mione?" Ron nudged his elbow into my side and I pick up my coffee for another long sip.

"Why do you like her?" I ask instead, hoping to dodge the request. Ron's eyes go all dreamy at the question and a slow smile spreads across his freckled face. He doesn't seem to notice my strained tone but I can tell by Harry's curious side-glance that he does. He narrows his green eyes and I mouth "Later" behind Ron's back.

"She's really pretty, y'know? She has those long honey-blonde curls that I'd really like to touch. She's short as well, really cute in a girly way and her voice is-" he sighs in rapture "-lovely. Every time she speaks all I can think about what it would be like if I could make her moan or-"

"Okay, okay. I get it she's pretty and her voice is sweet. What else?" Harry stifles a chuckle at my quick diversion. I stick my tongue out at him childishly. Ron doesn't seem to notice our banter since he's still absorbed by daydreams of Lavender.

"She has these big blue eyes that look so innocent." That was the first time I'd ever heard a fellow classmate describe the girl as innocent. "I kind of want to protect her, y'know? She just always comes across as so small and vulnerable. She's also really funny. I got sat with her in Divination this week-as you and Harry both dropped it- and she gets really intense when she's reading the crystal ball, as if she can see something the rest of us can't…" I snort at this, only slightly guilty when Ron casts me a glare, yet still thinking that Divination is the stupidest subject in the school curriculum. The fact that Lavender Brown didn't dumb herself down and actually seemed to believe in the bullshit Trelawney 'predicted' spoke volumes about her intellect. I couldn't help but feel disdain and pity towards Ron's newfound crush, which was quickly followed by guilt at having not given her a chance to prove my preconceptions wrong. I was a firm believer in second chances.

"Sorry, Ron. I don't mean to seem unsupportive. It's just you know how I feel about Divination."

"That it's the most unreliable and illogical artform and Professor Trelawney is a fraud who reads out 'fortune cookie predictions' in a spooky voice and gets paid for it?" Harry says dryly. I beam at my best friends, noticing their half-exasperated, half-affectionate expressions

"You know me so well." I tease, drinking the last few dregs of my coffee.

"Returning to the subject of Lavender," Ron blurts out, ending the Hallmark moment, "What do you think I should do?"

"Just go up to the bitch and ask for a shag. The blonde bimbo is as easy as they come. She'd probably even fuck an ugly runt like you, Weasley, if you gave her a compliment." A sneering voice cuts through our discussion and the air drops about ten degrees.

We spin around to see who the insidious voice belongs to. It originates from Theodore Nott who's standing next to Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and of course their Slytherin Prince: Draco Malfoy.

"Take that back!" Ron shouts, his face purpling in rage as he jumps to his feet. Harry springs up and grabs his arm, a dark frown clouding his face. I get to my feet more slowly leaving the cards and my lunch on the ground, now forgotten.

"Why should I?" Nott sneers, "It's true."

"You shouldn't talk about people that way," I scold him. "Or did Daddy Death Eater never teach you your manners?" The insult touches some kind of a nerve and Nott recoils as if he's just been slapped. Pansy gapes open-mouthed at my audacity, while Malfoy scowls and Blaise smirks. I grab onto Ron's other hand, interlacing our fingers to try and calm him down. I often find that a gentle touch, like a hug or softly spoken words, does wonders to calm his quick-temper. The problem with my Housemates is that Gryffindors tend to have rather explosive tempers meanwhile Slytherins are much more controlled. That's probably the reason Gryffindors are usually docked the most points when a fight breaks out. People naturally assume the Gryffindor is the first to throw the punch.

"You should watch your tongue," Malfoy drawls, striding confidently to the front of his group, staring down dauntlessly into my scowling face.

"You're not the boss of me." I retort, angrily. "I'm not one of your sidekicks who follow your every word and command." I gesture at Pansy and smirk at her daringly.

Sure enough, she rises to the bait and spits out something along the lines of me being a "Dirty little Mudblood."

"How uncreative." I state with a bored tone, stepping around Malfoy to come toe-to-toe with the pug-faced witch.

I allow her to rant about my bushy hair and Muggle heritage for a little while, my smile growing bigger and bigger at each insult. While I'm doing this, however, Ron has wormed his way free from Harry's restraint and punched Nott across the jaw. The two boys roll across the ground, fists and elbows flying, as Harry engages Blaise in combat when Blaise interferes in Harry trying to separate Ron and Theodore. I don't pay any notice of Malfoy since I'm having way too much fun toying with Pansy.

I step closer when her insults run dry and pinch a lock of black hair between thumb and finger. I feel a stab of vicious pleasure when the girl flinches in fear.

"I feel sorry for you, Pansy. Poor Pansy Parkinson tagging along unwanted next to Draco Malfoy's side. You complain about my blood and stick your snub nose up at my academic success to block out the self-loathing you hide under all your glamour charms. I know you despise me and my House yet you never bother to look too deeply into the flaws you own. All this mean-girl crap is just a cover up to try forget about the fact that your parents really wanted to birth a male heir to continue their legacy. Instead they had to teach you how to flirt and play the perfect Pureblood princess to attract an older man with lots of money. They probably realised that you being too ugly and petty will mean that they will be forced to pay a large sum of money to betroth you with some greedy Pureblood man so you can become an oppressed little Housewitch, useless for anything but birthing pug-nosed babies and looking after your husband like a slave." I lean closer and drop my voice a couple of octaves "You fear becoming forgotten and irrelevant because the sad truth is that you already are." I release the lock of hair watching her blue eyes fill with tears at my harsh (yet truthful) comments. My dark retribution leaves me smiling in spite of her obvious turmoil. She turns on her heel and runs away, trying to escape the venom I'd just dished her, the sweet smile on my face and the pity in my eyes. I suppose this was the accumulation of all the hatred that had built up with every petty remark she'd thrown at me over the years. I don't feel any pity, not yet at least, since I justify that the Pureblood Princess needed the reality check to knock her off her pedestal. I also feel rather relaxed despite seeing my friends absorbed within their own duels, as though a weight had just lifted from my chest. I watch the boys for a moment, knowing that if I try to interfere I'd risk getting hurt and that it was better to let them work out their frustrations without interruption.

"Whoever would've guessed our resident Golden Girl had such a dark streak?" An amused voice comments from behind me. I groan aloud at having forgotten that I had an audience in the form of one irritating Slytherin prat. I turn around in time to see him scoop up my apple from where I'd rested it next to my coffee.

"She deserved it." I sniff, holding my hand out for my apple. It's a granny smith apple, my favourite type, and the light green skin taunts me as Malfoy tossed it from hand to hand.

"Is that how you justify it?" The question is rhetorical.

I put my hands on my hips and repeat the words Harry had shouted at him so many years ago.

"Give it back Malfoy." A smirk flirts across his lips.

"No."

His hands still and he brings the apple- _my bloody apple!-_ to his mouth and bites down with a solid _crunch!_ I'm irrationally resentful over the thievery. And since Karma is a bitch I feel my stomach growl in hunger. I wonder briefly if this is payback for upsetting Pansy Parkinson. The juice dribbles down his chin and I feel the absurd yet brief desire to lick it off. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ Swiftly follows the notion and my anger multiplies by ten folds. I stalk towards him and glare into silver-speckled orbs. He doesn't so much as flinch when I cross my arms and glare daggers. Perhaps he's used to it.

"You can't just take things which don't belong to you. That's called stealing and from where I come from, people can get locked up for doing that."

He smirks as if I'm somehow adorable and harmless like some dumb little puppy.

"It's an apple, Granger. It's not as though I'd get incarcerated for something so minor."

"That isn't the point." I make a grab for the fruit but with his Seeker reflexes he lifts it above his head and out of my reach. I jump for it but I'm still a few inches off. Since when had he grown so tall?

I surreptitiously look at him- properly and thoroughly _look_ \- at Malfoy in a curious manner. I'm still fuming and yet through this red haze I still notice key details I'd overlooked before. Like how underneath his designer clothes was the outline of toned muscles and a predatory kind of strength. He'd grown to a height even taller than Ron, while not looking lanky and gangly at an estimated six foot. His blonde hair was longer yet just as fair as it always had been. The sharp planes of his face had formed a strong jawline that would make nitwits like Pansy drool, high cheekbones which helped create overall a rather handsome face. He was controlled, his posture feigning ease with his feet pointed outwards and his shoulders set back authoritatively, and I sensed the power and strength that he held tightly harnessed like any fierce leader would. I'd never really thought of him as weak before, despite Harry and Ron's comments on him being a cowardly snivelling prick, yet it was only now that I truly grasped that he was not known as The Slytherin Prince solely because of his parentage and wealth. He was powerful like a predator who moved with cat-like grace. These observations made me question whether he was toying with me now like a cat would provoke the mouse, teasing its prey before it pounced. I gulp at the thought.

"Take a picture it'll last longer." he mocks at me and I realise that me checking him out was not as subtle as I'd thought. No matter how pretty he was it didn't do anything to stop him from being a number one arsehole to others.

"As if I'd want the image of you anywhere near me," I snarl. "It's bad enough seeing you every day in class." I make another go for my apple that he'd stolen from me but his height means I have no hope of reaching it by jumping. He seems amused by my failed attempt.

"I would believe you, had you not just been quite blatantly admiring my appearance." I blush- I tell myself I'm angry at the accusation and not humiliated because I'd been doing just as he said.

"Fuck off." The curse slips from my tongue before I can stop it and I clap my hands over my mouth in horror. I didn't think that I would ever end up resorting to curse words. Secretly, I'd imagined myself above the use of such crass language. His eyes gleam with satisfaction as though immensely pleased by my mistake.

"Maybe you aren't as much as a Goody Two Shoes as I thought you were." he says airily, delighting in my discomfort. "Tut tut...what would McGonagall think?"

"You wouldn't dare." I say, forcing my hands from my mouth and crossing them. He arches his eyebrow imperiously.

"I would… But I'm not going to." My intrigue piques and I fall victim to voicing my thoughts.

"Why not? You Slytherins are hardly known for being selfless." I condescend. The notion of him acting selfless makes the blonde grimace in disgust.

"Because I'm not a snitch." he states. The statement rings untrue. There's a reason he's not going to tell the student body about me using foul language and I want to know why. I shake my head, my hair slapping my cheeks with the action.

"Nuh-uh. Tell me the real reason." His other eyebrow raises to join its twin. Then they fall down into his cool mask of indifference.

"Now I have no debt with you. You didn't tell Potty and Weasel about last year so in return I won't reveal your foul-mouth tendencies."

"Foul-mouth- last year? What?" I'm confused as to what he's referring to. He leans towards me and I freeze, feeling his lips brush the shell of my ear.

"When Pansy was looking for me you didn't reveal my location. Now we hold no debts." He leans back and I shiver at feeling cold air rush to replace his warm breath.

"I never thought you were indebted to me in the first place. Surely, that's not how gestures are thought of in Slytherin." I glance into his eyes seeing the sombreness in the bluey grey and frown. "Seriously? You all count kind gestures as debts? How cold can you be?"

He drops his arm holding the apple and bites again happily crunching away. He seems unperturbed by my comment and merely shrugs. I forget about the obvious social ladder established in his House when the object of my frustration is within reach. This time I don't make a swipe for it and attempt a different approach.

"Pretty please can you return my apple?" I fluttered my eyelashes in a sarcastic mimic of Pansy Parkinson and resist the impulse to punch his aristocratic nose and simply take the apple from him as he rolls on the ground with pain. He savours his current mouthful then licks his lips almost perversely. _Sadistic twat_.

"I'll give you your apple if you admit that you were checking me out and were astonished by my beauty." _**Arrogant**_ _sadistic twat_. I correct internally.

I laugh aloud at the absurdity of doing such a thing. As if I'd ever let his supermassive ego expand. Godric forbid his head might actually explode from the size of it! The mental image makes me actually bend double from the laughter and strikes me as hysterical. Distantly I hear Zabini ask Malfoy what was wrong with me and hear Malfoy state "She's off her head" which reminds me again of the cartoonish daydream of Draco's head popping.

By the time I've recovered, Zabini and Nott are flanking Malfoy and Harry is helping Ron stand up. I'm not sure who won each fight since they're all sustaining injuries. Zabini has a cut lip, a nasty bruise blooming across his left cheek and has a couple of cuts on one of his arms from some slicing hex Harry had thrown. Meanwhile Harry sported a black eye, a red rash across his neck and was limping on one leg. Ron seemed much more worse for wear so I decided to wait until Madam Pomfrey summarised the extent of his injuries and despite all that he was grinning in victory which meant Nott had drawn the short end of the wand in this fight. To support my hypothesis Nott seemed barely conscious as Zabini acted as his crutch.

Malfoy tosses me the core of my green apple with a wolfish grin. All that remains is the stalk and seeds which make my hand sticky. "The apple was delicious." he murmurs quietly, too low to be overheard by the other boys. "I bet it was since you seem to take great pleasure in things which aren't yours to have," My incensed hissing statement takes us both by surprise as the implications sink in. Draco's eyes darken to a charcoal and his jaw sets in anger.

"See you around Golden Girl." he replies evenly, his voice controlled even in his apparent frustration at my words. I salute him putting as much condescension behind the action as I can muster and smirking as he turns on his foot and stalks towards the castle. His bumbling fools follow their master and only when they're out of eyesight do I throw the apple core furiously at the path they just took.

I turn towards my best friends.

"What was _that_ all about?" Harry queries in suspicion, gesturing towards the apple core.

"Nothing important." I declare, forgetting about how odd Malfoy acted when he interacted with me, instead focusing on helping my friends.

"Now let's go to the Hospital wing and get you both patched up."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you so much to all those who favorited or followed or commented on my story! I must confess, this story's only going to get darker from here on out. However, in the spirit of Valentine's Day; here's the next chapter ( I hope you enjoy it).**

The day of the Yule Ball had the halls bursting with chatter and excitement. The girls in my year would often clump together to discuss dress colours and heel sizes and who would be asking whom out for a dance on the Ballroom floor. Earlier today I'd overheard Seamus Finnegan betting against Dean Thomas that he'd be granted a kiss from a Veela by the end of the night. Dean had betted ten galleons that Seamus would be ditched by nine o'clock which had made the Irish boy up the ante to agreeing to dive into the Black Lake naked if he failed. Almost everyone had stayed for the entirety of the Christmas Break, hoping to attend the Yule Ball this evening with the rest of the School. The Ball had been set for Christmas Day and so this morning instead of waking up at home in my blue-painted bedroom, I'd woken to Lavender and Parvarti chattering while opening their stockings.

I'd been happy at my own stocking and modest pile of presents at the foot of my bed. My stocking had been filled with the usual assortment of Sugar quills, bath bombs and lotions, a small pocket-novel (this year I'd been gifted with '1984 by George Orwell', a dystopian book I'd been wanting to read), a few Muggle sweets and a thimble-sized jade dragon (courtesy of my French Aunt, who liked collecting antique rarities). I'd been pleasantly surprised by the number of presents by my bed and wondered whether Viktor Krum had asked the elves to deliver an extra present. In shiny blue paper were my parents gifts; a First Edition compilation of classic Muggle poetry and a Yankee Candle which smelled of gingerbread and coffee beans. In stripy paper was Harry's practical gift of a book on Complex Charms and Ron gifted me with a slightly tattered Potions set which was equipped with higher-level ingredients (probably bought off of Fred and George). Mrs Weasley had sent some homemade fudge and a lilac sweater with a 'H' knitted onto it. Ginny had sent me a set of Tarot Cards (probably due to my professed hatred of Divination and her cheeky sense of humour), my French relatives had sent a bottle of my favourite perfume (lilac and musk) along with a beautiful floral patterned diary and the mystery present turned out to be a box of Belgian chocolates from Viktor. The rest of the day had been spent hanging out with Harry and Ron and drinking in the joyous atmosphere.

I'd also used this time to reflect on Viktor and what I felt towards him. He was a charming young man with a nicely filled out body and rather rugged looks which made most girls swoon. He also had a great sense of humour, it was surprisingly self-deprecating and humble despite his fame, and of course his interest in me made me feel flattered. Yet the fact of the matter was that he was seventeen and a World-Champion Quidditch player while I was a bookish fifteen-year-old who had the coordination of a clumsy child and knew next to nothing about Quidditch since I found the whole thing uninteresting. As flattering and unexpected his interest in me was, I couldn't forget that we came from completely different worlds and our language barrier made communication somewhat awkward. Regardless, I'd figured that for the time he was at Hogwarts I would not be resistant against befriending the older boy and letting time decide whether we were compatible with each other. It seemed the most logical thing to do.

Smiling with the memory of his note- 'Dear Hermione, I hope you like the chocolates. They are sweet like you. Viktor x'- I didn't realise where I was wandering towards until I found myself in a random hallway which was gloomy and cut off from the other festivities. I realised that the tapestry I'd passed through was hiding this secret passageway since little light filtered through into the stark surroundings. And then I noticed another odd thing: there was a person silhouetted by the bricked up wall at the end of the one-way corridor.

I stroll towards the shadow, hoping that I'll have enough time to get myself prepared for the Ball since it was five o'clock in the evening and I had been on my way to my Dormitory.

"Lumos" I mutter under my breath and the light from the tip of my wand illuminates the figure. It's Malfoy stretched out languidly with his ankles crossed and his upper body and head resting against the stone wall. His eyes are shut yet one cold blue eye blinks open at the intrusion of light.

"Malfoy? What are you doing here?" I look around for Zabini and Parkinson, wondering whether this is some sort of trap. It's only been a few months since that whole ferret incident where he'd deflected the animal hex onto Pansy when Moody had sought retribution and the black-haired banshee had screamed bloody murder when she'd been reverted back. My fingertips graze my shrunken down teeth in memory of the abrasive encounter.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he replies evenly, closing his eye again. I'm slightly miffed that he doesn't consider me enough of a threat to keep his eyes on me and my annoyance doubles when I realise he's just answered my question with a question; something he'd done when I'd questioned why he was lying in the grass.

"You can't answer a question with a question. It's bad etiquette." I proclaim with my arms crossed. His eyes blink slowly open, sparkling in the magical light, then roll in exasperation.

"According to who?" he drawls. I huff in frustration, ditching this pointless line of questioning.

I should turn around and leave the mysterious blonde in his patch of darkness to fester in whatever thoughts that are troubling him. I should walk into the bright light of the torches lining the halls of merry students and weave my way around garlands of holly and mistletoe strung up by the House Elves. I should put on my blue periwinkle dress and wait for Ginny to arrive so that she can doll me up with hair and makeup charms and products. I don't.

Instead I sit down onto the cold stone next to Malfoy and watch his eyes fly open in astonishment. His elegant eyebrows arch in skepticism and I can see his muscles tense in apprehension.

"What are you doing?" His voice bleeds distrust. I take great pleasure in throwing his words back to him;

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I comment with a sardonic smile.

We sit in silence for awhile, the kind of silence which sets heavily on your shoulders like a finely woven cloak, a smothering tension of unasked questions and wariness and surprise.

He looks tired from the purple crescents under his eyes and the way he's so relaxed leaning against the wall and yet in spite of all this I still am acutely aware that he could easily grasp hold of my head between his finely tapered fingertips and smooth palms and snap my neck in a jarring twist to leave me a crumpled shell waiting to be discovered. It's a morbid thought for Christmas Day and yet the fact that he feels no need to sneer or put up his usual persona comforts me somewhat.

"You can keep a secret can't you Granger?" his voice is a sliver of sound in the vacuum of air. The question takes me back to him stealing a smile and eating my apple. I nod my head slowly. "Not good enough Granger." his voice is suddenly sharp like the sharp point of a needle. "I can keep a secret." I vow, curling four of my fingers and sticking my pinkie finger towards him. His face scrunches in confusion. I loop his pinkie finger with mine and curl mine around his as I explain to him the intricacies of a pinkie promise.

"It's a Muggle promise," I say, "Between two confidantes who vow to never betray each other's secrets for as long as they both live. It's also a sign of friendship and trust." He yanks his hand away at the last part and a startled laugh bursts out of me and his immediate reaction. "It's okay Malfoy you don't have to befriend me. Nor trust me in any other way outside of the promise. The pinky is not that binding, it does not have the ability to change one's personality or rationale." The confusion and horror fades from his features to be replaced with his indecipherable mask. The silence stretches, more comfortable now than it had been before, although I couldn't pinpoint exactly when the awkwardness started to melt away. Just when I think he may have dropped to sleep (his eyes had closed once more) or decided not to tell me after all, he speaks.

"I'm betrothed." He says this flatly, not a whit of emotion altering his tone. I'd read up on Betrothal contracts ever since I'd been laughed at by Parvarti for not 'getting it'. They were contracts written up by the parents of the upcoming bride and groom detailing a marriage between two Purebloods (a man and a woman) in order to birth an heir. There was always what was called a 'courting period' where the male would buy jewellery and other gifts to his fiancee and take her out on dates and such before the official wedding. It was an antiquated tradition yet supposedly important to Pureblood families for what they called 'continuing a Magical and Noble bloodline'. I called it 'inbreeding to remain relevant'. It was a controversial topic among the Student populace.

My voice is carefully neutral when I enquire to whom he's betrothed to.

"Astoria Greengrass." He replies, his eyes fluttering open with a wry smile painting his lips.

"Not Pansy Parkinson? The girl you're supposedly taking to the ball?" I feign a scandalous gasp, shocked (but trying to hide it) when his lips twitch in amusement.

"I'm only taking her there to soften the blow." My jaw drops for real.

"Seriously? You're going to tell her you're betrothed at the Ball? That's… That's so…"

"Callous? Cold-hearted? Haven't you realised by now that I'm both of those things." The snark in his tone is half-hearted at best. He seems tired and indifferent and I understand I'm not talking to the boy with pretenses and a stereotype to live up to but a different boy who's too wearied to care about what I think of him. I try to wrap my head around this new concept.

"Are you upset that you're betrothed..?" I press, trying to figure out the thoughts running through his head. I dare not to inquire as to his family life or his friendships. He'd only close up in a millisecond or deflect the question.

"Honestly?" His eyelids drop, shutting out the rest of the world as his thoughts turn inwards. "I'm not mad, not really, betrothals are seen as normal in my family- in all Pureblood families who haven't ditched the old ways- and my father like his father before him was betrothed at my age. Astoria is pleasant. She's pretty, she's in the year below us and she's as submissive as they come, or my father told me. She'll make a perfect housewitch and baby-maker." I feel a flare of righteous indignation flare up on account of poor Astoria Greengrass having to be forged into this matriarchal model and useless trinket merely for show. I would have said something had Malfoy said the last part without bitterness.

"I know what you're thinking-" he blurts out in the answering silence, "I can feel you bristling with that righteous attitude you have." Another wry smile blooms across his lips. "But it's not that simple. We have a certain amount of choice in so far as which blushing bride we prefer and the girls? Hell, Astoria is already infatuated with me. She keeps writing me these sickening love poems and there's only so many fire spells I can be arsed to perform in one day. She wants me to begin courting her immediately. So do our mothers. I've already stated that I'm not marrying her until we've both graduated and yet the fact that it's being introduced now… I'm fifteen for fuck's sake. I don't want to be tied to some vapid giggling thirteen year old." He says all this with a small furrow burrowing deeper into the small space above his nose. I absorb his vocalised thoughts, not knowing whether to say something or to just sit there. In the end I don't have to choose because he's reached the conclusion that I'm bound by my Muggle promise and will listen without input as he rants.

"You don't understand what it's like. The expectation that I'm placed under. Being a Slytherin is all about ruthlessness and cunning. If you can't make the masses fear and respect you, you'll end up the dirt under someone's boot. If you can't bring yourself to fire a blood-boiling hex and a couple suffocating illusions you're seen as weak. Wealth and heritage only get you so far in being respected before one has to resort to other means." My jaw drops open. The world which he's describing- the Slytherin way of life he's painted in the garish red of blood and fickle gold of wealth- seems a terrible and lonely way to exist. No wonder they were seen as the most vicious and dark of the lot. They usually were. "I don't mind the violence. In fact, I thrive in it. The decadence, the satiation of getting exactly what you want, the savage pleasure of seeing a person kneel at your feet, quaking in fear. It's a beautiful artform. A lovely hierarchy." A shiver snakes its way up my spine and I feel my heart speed up in fear at the way his voice lowers to a purr as though caressing each awful syllable which slips off his tongue. "But there's the other side to the coin. The price I pay for being idolised by my House. They expect cold detachment and meagre affection and unquestionable intelligence when it comes to their petty issues. I'm not a God nor do I wish for that level of responsibility. But still they flock like mindless sheep. Pansy does what she can to ward them off- she's selfish to the core and benefits me because she always wants me all to myself, wants my undivided attention. And Blaise… As much as he can be a controversial wanker, he doesn't agree with every goddamn word I say and that makes him valuable. Finding people who don't fear me these days is becoming a rarity." He opens his eyes now and I'm struck silent by how completely alien they look in the dim light. The irises a dark charcoal bordering on black and interspersed with tiny veins of silver. They look luminescent.

"But you don't fear me, do you?" His voice is soft. I try to speak but find my saliva has dried up and my tongue feels like a dead weight. He's looking at me intensely with those burning pennies of flashing nickel and leaning closer and smirking and oh godric I feel like I can't breathe can't speak can't talk can't think-

His lips meet mine with bruising force as though he's trying to find the answer written like braille across the creases of my flesh, written in the seam of my lips. I'm shocked, paralysed against the reality that this boy- this insane psychopathic whirlwind of a Wizard- is crushing his blue blooded lips against mine. His tongue traces the dip of my lips and he nibbles gently on my bottom lip. I gasp then feel my eyes fly open at the intrusion as his tongue slides into my mouth. His lips are moving forcefully against mine and I can see the smooth pallor of his face as he leans closer, weaving those tapered fingers to cup my jaw and hold me closer, slanting my head just so. When his tongue meets mine I can taste him and for a brief fleeting moment I taste black pepper and dark chocolate, the smooth taste of sin. Desire kicks me in the stomach and despite my inexperience, the fact that this boy is my nemesis, the fact that in a couple of hours I will have to attend the Yule Ball with a date who is not the boy I'm kissing, I begin to kiss him back.

It feels like a tidal wave of emotion has just crashed over my head, the current dragging me under. I feel like I'm drowning in him, the way that he seems like a suffocating man who's breathing me in like air, I'm falling deeper and deeper into his cold embrace. His arms snake around me, his cruel fingers combing through my hair, digging into my scalp as he pulls me closer to him so that I'm literally bound to him, sprawled across his lap like some sort of hussy, chests so close that I can feel the rapid beating of his heart. His tongue does a wicked twist and I moan against my volition.

And just as quickly as it began, it's over. He pushes me away, his breathing ragged, his eyes shadowed with desire and rage. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, perhaps it was a second, perhaps it was an hour, but it suspends us both in disbelief for what feels like an eternity. I can't move. I can't breathe.

 _Why would he kiss me? How could he when I'm his enemy? Why would he now when he's betrothed to another?_

I don't realise that he's stood up until his wand flares with light and I'm forcibly removed from the depths of my own thoughts. I look up when his shadow hesitates over me. His back is turned so that I can't see his face, which makes me feel relieved. I don't know if I could stomach seeing revulsion and shame, or Godric forbid it be apathy, sketched onto his face. Over and over and over I keep feeling the ghost of his lips against mine, his fingers in my hair and his heartbeat echoing my own.

I feel vulnerable and violated and confused. I don't understand. I don't think I _want_ to understand what just happened. I pluck up the courage to glimpse at his profile and flinch at the way which his jaw is clenched. His hands are balled into fists. He's angry… At me? But I didn't kiss him! My thoughts snag and catch like a record struggling to skip over a scratch on the disc. _I didn't kiss him. Didn't kiss him. Kiss him._ _ **Him.**_

"This never happened." It's little more than a whisper but I can hear it as if it was a shout. Viktor's letter feels like it's burning in my pocket and I suddenly feel ashamed of myself. He doesn't wait for a response, he simply continues walking as if nothing ever happened. As if he hadn't just snogged me senseless then left me dazed in a hidden corridor. It's only when the light shuts out completely that I draw a gulping breath of air. It might not have meant that much to Draco Malfoy but it meant a lot to me. Because that had been my first kiss which I'd been saving for someone special.

And he'd stolen it.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I know it's been ages. I promise I will finish this since I've planned extensively how I want the last chapter to end. However this is an extra long chapter which has been gathering dust in my laptop since it's my final exams right now. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)**

 **The Yule Ball was unforgettable. After my illicit kiss in the corridor I'd vowed to myself that I'd avoid Draco Malfoy at all costs.** ** _He's dangerous,_** **I reminded myself while Ginny brushed sparkly gold glitter in the crease of my eyes and across my cheekbones,** ** _He's hurt his own Housemates, tortured them with a cruel smirk on his face and revelled in the power he holds._** **But even as I was thinking these logical reasons why he was such bad news, I couldn't quite shake the ghostly imprint of his lips crushing against mine and the dark taste of sin on his tongue.**

As promised, Ginny made me look like a princess. My hair was skilfully twisted into an elegant updo with a few curls left down to frame my subtle makeup. I rubbed my palms into the chiffon of the blue periwinkle dress and banished all thoughts of the Slytherin Prince from my mind.

"You look gorgeous." Ginny beamed at me, admiring her handiwork.

"As do you," I replied, laughing, "Harry won't be able to keep his eyes off of you." Ginny startles, her eyes widening like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Her pastel pink dress floats around her as she bites her lip, unsure how to respond.

"Don't you mean Neville? He asked me to the ball after all."

I sat down on the bed and crossed my ankles, wondering how best to approach this topic.

Over the past year I'd grown closer to Ginny, perhaps since rooming with her at the Quidditch World Cup over the Summer. I'd learnt more about who she was as an individual rather than just another member of the Weasley clan and was pleasantly surprised by how ambitious she was. She loved Quidditch, something I couldn't really relate to, but also she had a fascination for scrapbooking and pygmy puffs and fashion. I'd learnt through my time with the Weasley's that Ginny had a crush on Harry, although after hearing some of the pranks and tasteless jokes him and Ron had carried out- not to mention Harry's frustrating penchant for blindly rushing into a reckless situation in the name of his Gryffindor courage- it was hard to imagine what appealed her to him. What she didn't know however was that Harry liked her as well. Perhaps not to the same extent but I'd seen the side glances, the way he laughed at her jokes when they were sarcastic or witty-especially when they were at Ron's expense. I'd noticed the way he seemed fixated with her fiery red hair (especially when they were zooming across the Quidditch pitch and it would fly behind her like a fox tail) when he thought no one was watching..

At the same time, I realised that interfering would only do more harm than good. Harry was currently preoccupied with Cho in all her exotic beauty and kind-hearted charm. I knew I couldn't rush these things and so during our camping over the summer I'd advised her to relax around Harry and try and act more natural, because at least then he'd be able to see her in a new light and they'd be more comfortable spending time together. I knew she was a bit bummed to be going to the Ball with Neville instead of Harry but I thought it might be the perfect opportunity for her to prove to Harry that she did have other people to have fun with besides our trio and Luna.

"You look so stunning I bet _all_ the boys won't be able to concentrate on their dates." I said instead. She rolled her eyes, turning back to straightening her hair and looked at me in the mirror.

"Yeah right. We both know Harry will be too busy staring at perfect Cho and champion Cedric, wishing that it was him instead." The jealousy bled through her voice and I saw a glint in her eye which reminded me of the half-dazed regret which the boys wore in their expressions when the Veela cheerleaders pranced off the pitch before the World Cup match began. Trying to ease her disappointment: "Give it time, Gin. I'm sure he'll come around eventually."

"How can you be so sure?"

I shrugged, keeping my inner musings hidden for fear of exposing Harry on something he hadn't realised himself yet. "Call it a hunch."

Ginny takes another sweeping surveyal of me and then busies herself rooting through my drawers and jewellery boxes, looking for something in particular. The rattle and mumbling under my breath intrigues me, yet I know better than to interrupt Ginny when she's in the middle of a mission. She pauses and dangles a long thin silver chain from between her fingers which glimmers like spidersilk in the light. She brandishes her findings towards me and I shake my head as soon as I figure out what it is.

"I can't wear that."

"Why not? I've seen you wear it before." I reach out and trace my fingertips across the tags.

"It was my great-granddad's. He wore them during his time in the War."

"So? They've got added sentimentality, plus they'll match your silver heels and earrings."

I shake my head, remembering she's come from a different world to Muggles and therefore she might not understand the importance of Victoria Cross medals or saving the 'dog tags' in a special case to preserve a Wra Hero's memory for longer.

"They get issued as part of the army service, hence the blood type and his initials being engraved onto it." Ginny squints at the round signata and reads aloud:

"A Pos. Then there's a bunch of numbers-"

"Probably something like a serial number or what squadron he was in, I dunno-"

"- and Granger HJ. Hey, these are your initials!"

"They are but we have different names of course," I smile at her enthusiasm; "Herman James Granger. A war hero according to my great-gran."

"He sounds like one," Ginny comments. "Wear it, he'd want you to be proud of your history and not keep it in a blue box forever." I relinquish my control over the situation and allow her to spin me round and clasp the tag around my throat so that the pendant itself rested against my clavicle. I press my thumb to the cool metal and hope that he's finding peace in heaven.

The conversation ended thanks to my alarm clock, signalling I had to start making my way down to meet Viktor if I wanted to be in time for the Opening ceremony. With one last hug we parted ways and I left to go find my Bulgarian beau. A I descended the spiral staircase, a smile tugged at the corners of my lips. He stood there, stiffly, a wolf fur draped over his crisply pressed red robes. It reminds me of a General's suit and as I walk down the steps, taking a shaky breath and praying that I won't trip up in my silver heels and make a fool of myself, he looks up. His chocolate brown eyes soften and formally he stretches out a hand to help escort me down the last few steps.

"You look vonderful Hermy-own-ninny!" His thick Bulgarian accent distorts the words somewhat but I feel a rush of affection for the charming boy nonetheless.

"Thank you, Viktor. You look dashing in your robes." He smiles at me and my cheeks flood pink. He leads me down the corridors with the other Champions and their dates.

"Did you enjoy the chocolates?"

"Yes, they're delicious. How did you know I liked Belgian chocolates?" His cheeks turn a little pink around his stubble and in that moment he suddenly looks sheepish.

"I, uh, asked Harry vhat you like but don't have that often."

"Really?" I'm a little shocked at that. I couldn't imagine Viktor talking to Harry, a fellow competitor who'd become a bit of a social pariah, despite the fact that he hadn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire. I hope that Harry was pleasant in return and didn't immediately jump to assumptions about Viktor, as he tends to do when someone he doesn't know approaches him.

He chuckles a little at my incredulity; "Of course, Hermy-own-ninny. I vanted to get you somefing special."

We arrive at the Great Hall doors and without further ado are thrust into the spotlight. A grin breaks out across my face as we follow after Cedric and Fleur and into the Hall teeming with students all dressed up. The settings are beautiful; flowers and hangings draped across the walls in beautiful silky crimson and gold, little sprigs of mistletoe are dotted around the room between the holly wreaths and twinkling lights and the night sky- which usually was midnight blue and dotted with stars-now created the illusion of snow which would magically disappear as soon as it reached the heads of people. Even the wooden floor now looked like icy white gleaming marble.

"Wow, this is magnificent!" I murmur, careful not to say it too loud and disturb our formal procession into the middle of the floor for the first dance. Viktor doesn't take his eyes from my face and mumbles under his breath:

"It sure is."

As he leads me onto the dancefloor I spot Ron proudly flaunting his girlfriend Lavender on his arm and I give him a little wave as we pass by. Despite my preconceptions last year about Lavender I genuinely believed that Ron was a good influence on her. She'd stopped trying to impress the entire year group with looking a certain way and acting in a way which made the girls think she was funny and the boys thought was cute. Instead the relationship that had developed between the two was more grounded and stemmed from similarities the two shared. For once Ron wasn't just 'another Weasley boy': to Lavender he was the redhead boy which doted on her, the one who made her laugh and made her feel special. To him she wasn't just some 'loose fling', she had quickly become his world. And as wrapped up in each other as they were, I couldn't help but envy the intimacy they had.

I also spotted Neville and Ginny who must've snuck in before the doors shut behind the Champions' dramatic entrance. Neville looks a little nervous since he's shuffling his shiny black shoes and he sort of resembles a penguin in his ruffled black tie tux, undoubtedly a survivor of his Gran's chest of costumes and memorabilia from the past. He smiles at me when I pass him and gives a dorky thumbs up. I grin at him and Ginny and I have to stifle a giggle when I catch Ginny fanning herself with her hand in an encouraging girl-gesture to say 'you two look HOT." And then we're there: middle of the dancefloor and Professor McGonagall makes the cue for the String quartet to begin their song and the night begins...

As we go through the motions of dancing and despite the fact that _it doesn't matter. He's bad news. He kissed you for some silly dare, or out of temporary insanity. Stop thinking about him-,_ Viktor notices my absent-mindedness.

"Hermy-own-ninny?" Viktor's confusion startles me out of my internal monologue.

"Yes?" I notice then that we've almost finished the first dance and other couples are starting to make their way onto the dance floor. He picks me up by the waist and spins me around. Despite me zoning out, I've had to go through the motions of this dance for weeks now so I'm unconsciously in step with each waltz, twirl and promenade.

"You keep looking around. Is everyfing okay?"

I frown. Do I? Had I sunk to looking for stupid Malfoy with his stupid face and even stupider lips. "Sorry Viktor, everything's fine, perfect even." I fake a smile and intertwine my fingers in his to make him at ease. He smiles sheepishly and once again I'm struck by how sweet and boyish this side to him is. Everyone knows him to be this big, macho, rugged young man constantly scowling into cameras or zooming across the Quidditch pitch, a fluttering golden snitch clasped in his large, calloused hands. But with me that public persona melted into a kind-hearted, generous, considerate boy who just craved intellectual discussion and someone who could look past his fame and see him for who he truly was.

I decide from then on to forcibly squash down all thoughts of Draco Malfoy and devote my attention to my companion and making the most of the Yule ball instead. The songs begin to blend together and after an hour or so I find myself laughing unabashedly at all his witty remarks and bawdy jokes. I begin to get caught up in the magic of being spun across the dancefloor and switching between the choreography of the waltz, the jive, the foxtrot and then to more wacky movements like the mashed potato, the macarena, the moonwalk (Viktor was surprisingly good at this one and practically glided across the floor- he even did the 'Hee-hee!" that Michael Jackson was famous for) and he in turn taught me a few Bulgarian folk dance combinations which made me gain a whole new appreciation toward the quick-stepping technique of Bulgarian natives. I'm so caught up on the dancing and the Christmassy ambiance and the way in which when he grinned a little dimple would appear in his left cheek, that I didn't notice the burning stare of Malfoy until someone else did.

"-wait, wait. You're telling me you learnt the quickstep at Durmstrang as an extra-curricular activity? If a guy did that here, they'd be teased mercilessly about it!"

"Is that what they call it, 'a quick step'. How simple." Wonder traces his expression like this new information on the English language stirred something in him. A greed almost, for more knowledge. Something I recognized since I saw it in my own face everytime I glanced in the mirror. He comes back to the present and nods, that abashed smile gracing the corners of his lips. "Ah but you forget, I am a world-famous Quidditch player. No von vould dare 'tease me' as you say."

"Okay Vaslav Nijinsky." I tease, flicking his nose amiably, like I would do to Harry or Ron.

He catches my finger before I complete my daring move- _damn, I forgot about his Seeker reflexes-_ and he tuts at me in mock anger.

"I don't do vat type ov dancing." he protests, catching my reference of the famous Russian ballet dancer.

"Suure you don't." I grin but my smile catches when I see that he's frowning at something behind my shoulder. "What is-"

Suddenly, Viktor takes my hand in his and weaves me between the dancing couples and giggling groups of girls and even Madam Malkin and Hagrid swaying against each other, over to a free table.

"What's wrong? Are you that offended by the notion of becoming the next Billy Elliot that you can't bear to step foot on a dance floor ever again?" I'm joking of course, but secretly I feel a nagging worry that something's wrong. Something or someone seems to have upset him.

He pulls a chair out for me, even in his flustered state he's still ever the gentleman, then sits down across from me. In a rare show of emotion he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, something which I'd realised to be a nervous tic he had.

"Viktor?" I drop my teasing tone to a more hesitant question. "Did I do something wrong?"

Immediately, Viktor stops glaring into the throng of dancers and turns his attention back to me: "No! Nothing's vrong. I just… Vanted to get out of the crowd," quickly, before I can ask him another question, he stands up and hastily says "I'm just going to get some food and dreenk. Vould you like a dreenk?"

"Yes please, punch sounds swell." I reply, slowly, still reeling from the sudden shift of events. Before I can get up from my chair, he nods absentmindedly and gambles off, in the exact opposite direction of the refreshments table.

"Vik-" I start to tell him but then Harry and Ron plonk down in the seats next to me around the circular table. Lavender leaves Viktor's seat vacant and perches on Ron's knee instead.

"Hey 'Mione!"

"Great party, huh?"

"I'm starving! Lav made us dance for ages. And there's no canapes floating around."

I laugh as they all talk over each other: "Sure, this place is amazing! And Ron the buffet table's just over there, it's an all-you-can-eat." His eyes light up and fixate on his girlfriend questioningly. Lavender rolls her eyes but pats him affectionately on the cheek as if saying "Go ahead." In an eyeblink, Ron's up and striding determinedly mumbling under his breath about 'chicken wings' and 'mince pies' and 'hmm I wonder if there are those cinnamon gingerbread cookies that were made for last year's Christmas banquet?'.

"Yeah I heard from Parvarti that Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall were the ones who made the snowflake charm and the enchanted mistletoe."

"Enchanted?" I ask, quirking my eyebrow. Her honey-blonde curls bob up and down as she nods vehemently.

"Yeah, apparently it's just meant to glow yellow when someone in love stands under it. If it's a couple and they're both in love it glows bright gold. That's why it's so sparsely spread out. Therefore only those who want to know can check on their relationship status. It's causing a few issues though. Terry Boot and Theodore Nott got into an argument and ended up scrapping beneath one of them-"

"-and the bloody thing turned gold!" Ron finishes, reappearing with a chicken leg held up to his mouth and a large mince pie juggled in the other hand. My jaw drops open in astonishment. _Theo the womanizing snake who beated up anyone he deemed a pussy was...gay? And in love with meek Terry Boot of all people? The same Terry Boot who he called a 'stuck-up prig' in Herbology? The same Terry Boot who would do Theo's homework for him in the snake's den itself, the trip itself an intimidating venture without the added fact of being in the Slytherin common room without an ally._

"Nott and Boot are in love!?" I glance at Harry, thinking this might be some sort of elaborate prank. His eyes are as wide as saucers behind his spectacles as if he still can't believe it, and in a sort of detached voice he blurts out:

"I saw it myself! Only me and those trying to break up the fight saw it though."

"Who else was there?" My frown deepens when the implications of this sink in. Malfoy- the boy I'd succeeded in forgetting about for a few measly hours- his words came rushing to the forefront of my analytical mind. _Being a Slytherin is all about ruthlessness and cunning. If you can't make the masses fear and respect you, you'll end up the dirt under someone's boot._ As much as I dislike Theo and his striking resemblance to my childhood bully, Tommy Brown, I fear for his safety in a House which cuts off those deemed as weak or those who spoil their Noble and Regal legacies. Him being gay was something natural and an unavoidable aspect of his identity. But his Housemates and their parents wouldn't see it as that. I wonder if he'll have to move school. Another worry sneaks up on me and I almost gasp at the horrifying fantasy- what would his classmates do to him after the Ball if they found out about his sexuality and relations with Terry Boot, the swotty, half-blooded Ravenclaw who many Slytherins mocked.

"It was near the back of the room while The Weird Sisters were doing there set so only me, Zabini and Malfoy saw the fight." During his explanation Ron resumes his place and as if pulled by strings Lavender sits back on him, giggling. He offers me one of the mince pies and I shake my head no, too wrapped up in what will befall the two boys.

"What actually happened though? Did Malfoy… Say anything to you, or to them, about it. Why were they fighting in the first place if they're supposed to be in love? Surely there's not been a flaw in the creation of the Mistletoe spells, I can't imagine Professor McGonagall making a mistake like that."

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down, 'Mione. I can only tell you what I saw."

I flip my palm towards him, wordlessly gesturing for him to elaborate. For while I loved Harry, he had the annoying habit of drawing out news and gossip. It was like pulling teeth sometimes, especially if it didn't involve blaming the Slytherins of all the evils and minor mishaps in the world or involving a quidditch stick. He shrugs, "I don't know why they were fighting, the music blocked it all out. But first they were arguing and then Terry, outta nowhere just punches him smack right on the chin. I really didn't expect it from him. He acts like such a swot, like you 'Mione! But he sure has a good left hook. Then Nott just charges him and they end up wrestling underneath the mistletoe. The plant did this weird buzzing sound and got brighter and brighter until it was really gold. That's when Zabini pointed it out to Malfoy and they broke it up."

"How did they break it up?" I'm imagining a dark curse or jinx tossed their way, apprehensive after the glimpse of Slytherin sanctions that had been pointed out to me By Malfoy himself in that dark little corridor.

Ron laughs and even Harry looks a little puzzled. This is when Ron pipes up:

"What do you mean how did they break it up? You've seen how Nott reacts to Malfoy. He's like his lapdog. When Malfoy says attack, he attacks. When Malfoy tells him to sit down and be a good boy, you can bet your arse he'll-"

"Yes dear, we get the picture." Lavender intercedes, amused by his ramblings. He smiles up at her before taking a big chunk out of his chicken drumstick.

"So he just stopped when Malfoy told him to?"

Harry nods again.

"Pretty much, yeah. There could've been some kind of magic spell though since he reacted so quickly. It was really weird 'Mione. One minute he's beating the shit out of Boot and the next he's five feet away, blank as a signpost and stood to attention. Godric knows what sort of military drills Malfoy has them do in their free time." It's a joke but it skirts disturbingly close to the truth so I keep my mouth clamped shut.

"Malfoy took Boot aside and talked to him about something and then when he came back he acted like a complete dick. I wouldn't be surprised if he threatened Boot too." Harry complains, a dark look entering his emerald eyes.

"He's Dark Harry. Dark wizards are evil we all know that." Ron blabbers around his food.

"That's not necessarily true."

I didn't realise I'd expressed my thoughts aloud until I got three pairs of stunned eyes on me as if I'd just grown another head and started dancing naked around a fire in a ritualistic dance. My cheeks feel hot and I can't fully believe I'd just said that aloud. Especially since I'd never previously defended Dark wizards before- _not before today, I haven't._ Even Harry, who's usually oblivious to any implicit meaning in my commentary narrows his green eyes in suspicion.

"I just mean- those who affiliate themselves with Dark magic or live in Slytherin aren't all evil." I catch a glimpse of a red crisply pressed uniform and a sudden stroke of genius hits me. "Just look at Durmstrang! Their curriculum is more focused around Dark magic and politically Dark ideology but that doesn't mean the students and staff are power-hungry megalomaniacs willing to inflict terror onto anyone Light."

Lavender smiles sweetly at me and nods her approval.

"I think what Hermione is trying to say is that her handsome hunky boyfriend is not Dark despite his school's reputation so you should lay off."

That wasn't what I was trying to say but at least it offers a valid excuse for my spontaneous defence of Dark Magic and Slytherins so I don't bother to correct her.

At this Harry chuckles and Ron wrinkles his nose, successfully distracted.

"Ugh, do you have to call him a handsome and hunky? He's not _that_ good-looking," Ron pouts, clearly put out by his doting girlfriend acknowledging Viktor's sex appeal.

"And he's not my boyfriend," I add, but neither seems to hear me since Lavender's placed a chaste kiss on Ron's lips in reassurance. While they preoccupy each other, Harry finished the story, explaining that Malfoy told him not to tell anyone if he valued his ability to procreate. For some reason the idea of Pure-blooded Malfoy eloquently threatening Harry with the equivalent of "I'll cut off your balls if you spread what happened" makes me want to laugh. He must've been ruffled if he couldn't think up a more creative threat than that. Although I do tell Harry (and Ron and Lavender after they extricate themselves from one another) that they shouldn't tell anyone else what had happened- if only because such matters were of a sensitive nature and this sort of gossip could ruin Terry's reputation and strain his friendships for associating with a Slytherin. I also told them that it should be his decision if and when to come out as gay.

Just then, Viktor re-emerged from the crowd carrying two goblets of cherry-red punch.

"Krum! We were questioning if you'd done a runner." Harry grins, trying to lighten the mood. He hands me my drink which I accept gratefully before flipping Harry off surreptitiously. Viktor draw his chair up next to me and throws an arm around my shoulders, pressing a butterfly kiss to my cheek.

"I vould never do that to Hermy-own-ninny." I stick my tongue out like a petulant child at Harry making the group laugh collectively at my antics.

Ron and Harry almost immediately start chattering away at Quidditch and the type of rigorous training schedule Viktor must have and what got him so into the sport. Sipping my drink, which is fruity and boozy (Lee Jordan must've spiked it with his secret stash of Firewhiskey that Seamus had been whispering about) I lazily examine the crowd, more out of curiosity than anything else. It's quite mesmerising to watch pretty girls adorned in every hue of colour on the rainbow spectrum dance hand in hand with boys dressed smartly. Amazingly Neville is sure-footed and in his element as he leads Ginny across the dancefloor. She laughs, her voice spilling above the music like a tinkling bell, and I catch Harry admiring her from the corner of my eye. Fleur looks uncomfortable as Roger nervously inches his hands down the small of her back. I can tell just from that brief glimpse of the couple that Roger is going to try to grope her and will undoubtedly get slapped for it and sworn profusely at in French. Cedric and Cho seem to be glowing with happiness as they whisper to one another near the Buffet table and I feel a sudden stab of sympathy for Harry when I see Cho gaze up at her companion with a gentle sort of intimacy as she pops a chocolate dipped strawberry in his mouth. And then, at last, my gaze snags on them. And my what a sight they are to behold…

Draco Malfoy stands tall and proud and stoic while a crazy-haired, shrieking, howling, yelling, crying and sputtering banshee pounds her fists against his chest. For a moment I'm struck dumb by how I didn't notice them before since they're making such a scene on the dancefloor and then I realise that nobody else seems to have noticed anything. It's a glamour, I'm sure of it- something complex or else I'd have been able to see through the enchantment straight away. The best way I can describe it is that an intangible but pressurised magical force is cloaking the two of them and simultaneously muting their voices to where I can only hear them if I strain my ears and only notice them if I squint really hard but if I ease up my concentration for as much as a second the surrounding music drowns them out and they blur into figments. I've never come across an enchantment quite like this before and I wonder how Malfoy learnt it. It's a very strong exhibition of clever magic- something like the product of a notice-me-not charm, a Muffliato and perhaps a charm the fae use to manipulate perceptions from those inherently Other. Glancing around I notice that the rest of the student body and teaching staff are too caught up in the revelry to notice or intervene with this almost invisible interaction. And wow, what an interaction it is. I put down my chalice and focus my full attention of the two of them. As I'd hoped it would my level of concentration helps me break past the mental barrier and suddenly the image of the two of them is in clear focus and Pansy's shrieks attack my ears at full volume.

 _Good Godric, that girl can yell loud!_ I think to myself, flinching slightly.

"ASTORIA GREENGRASS! WHY HER? PRISSY LITTLE GOODY-TWO-SHOES DOESN'T KNOW YOU. NOT LIKE I DO!" She cries out, sobs making her screams ragged and at a pitch which would make dogs howl in agony. Her long red talons latch onto his black suit jacket and he breaks his veneer of indifference at the action, his lip curling up into a sneer.

"You don't know me either, Pansy. None of you do." He replies frostily. Her blood-red nails grip tighter and she chokes on a sob at his cold, cold words.

"I-I DON'T UNDERSTAND! WHAT DID I DO WRONG? WE'VE BEEN GOING OUT FOR ALMOST TWO YEARS! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! WHAT WILL MY PARENTS SAY? I'LL HAVE FAILED THEM AN-AND YOU KNOW I CAN'T DO THAT!"

Even I can tell that this line of protest was not going to make Malfoy budge an inch. Her rebuttal had turned unexpectedly shallow, she seemed more panicked by how her Pureblood parents would react to the news than the news itself. For the first time I wonder if Pansy's infatuation with Malfoy had been an act from the start. Sure, no female alive could look at him now and say that he wasn't smoking hot, even I who was puzzled and angry at him could admit such a thing. But what if her pining and trailing him around, her flirtatious comments and the many rendez-vous makeouts across the multiple nooks and crannies of Hogwarts hadn't been fuelled by infatuation but rather by the impression that she would make her parents proud if she married into the reputable Malfoy family name. I wondered if she even liked Malfoy for his personality or if the relationship was more born out of mutual convenience.

 _What a lonely life to lead._ For a moment I almost feel sorry for the pug-faced girl whose makeup was smudged with tears and whose obvious despair and panic was consuming her.

Especially when I follow the rest of their verbal sparring match and public (but not really) breakup. I commit the image of them to memory; Him: standing firm and unruffled and unshakeable, his irises burning with silver fire, the rest of his expression deceptively neutral, other than his jaw which is clenched tightly, Her: hair in disarray, black mascara streaks making a trail across her contoured cheeks, sadness and hopelessness etched in the wobbling of her lower lip and the bent-over sagging stance, her fists clenched but useless against the will of her Slytherin Prince.

I don't do this out of a sick glee of seeing my rivals in such a terrible and tense state. I watch them to remind myself why I can never associate myself with this heartless, cruel boy who doesn't even shed a tear when telling his loyal girlfriend of two years that he had unapologetically chosen another girl to wed. I'm reminded of our conversation a few hours before…

" _ **Seriously? You're going to tell her you're betrothed at the Ball? That's… That's so…"**_

" _ **Callous? Cold-hearted? Haven't you realised by now that I'm both of those things."**_

 _He'd told me exactly who he was. So why am I so surprised that he's letting Pansy know in such a humiliating manner? He doesn't care about anyone but himself._

"I don't care what you tell your parents, the contract is already being drawn up as we speak. I'm not changing my mind on this matter." Pansy hiccups and scrunches her eyes up in pain, ceasing her attack on his chest. For a sliver of a second, so quick that I could've imagined it, I see Malfoy tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear and press a brief kiss at the crown of her head. "You did nothing wrong, I just need us to return to how things used to be" he states staring at a spot somewhere on the wall. Pansy blinks open her eyes, clearly confused.

"What do you mean?" Her voice is cracked and broken.

"Me, you, Theo and Blaise. I need you to be my inner circle now more than ever. My romance with you would obstruct our group dynamic and I need you to be on the same rank. Especially for what's to come." I don't understand what he means by this. What's to come? I wonder if it's related to graduating and the whole social schmoozing thing Purebloods did to grease their way into the Ministry. Pansy clearly understands it though because she ducks her head in consternation and opens her mouth to speak-

"Hermy-own-ninny!" The voice breaks into my trance and I'm so disappointed that I missed Pansy's reply that I shake off the hand on my shoulder. Krum frowns and I'm instantly sorry at the impulsive action. Harry is oblivious as he's staring at Cho and Cedric now with worrying relentlessness. Ron and Lavender have returned to the dancefloor.

"Sorry Viktor, I zoned out for a bit there."

"It's not a problem," he chuckles, flicking me on the nose in a gesture reminiscent to earlier. "Would you like to dance?" I consider it but them my stomach growls like a beast. He laughs heartily and my cheeks enflame. "Maybe after I've eaten?" I supply shyly, a little embarrassed by my body's betrayal. He starts to stand but Harry's still staring daggers at Cedric. I lean towards his ear and whisper: "Can you stay here and keep an eye on Harry. He's pining again." Viktor nods accommodatingly and I kiss his cheek in parting.

Beckoned by the glorious smells emanating from the large buffet table, a Muggle song from the film Oliver Twist floats into my head and I hum it idly. _Food, glorious food._ I swoop down on a paper plate and heap it with chips and beans and steak pie and mash and gravy and chicken nuggets (the Elves must've responded to my requests for more modern muggle foods being incorporated into the School meal plan! Go inclusivity!) and fresh salad. I meander over to the vegetable section and briefly debate whether green peas or sweetcorn would be the best palate cleanser. Someone leans back against the table encroaching in my personal space.

"Excuse me, please may you lean away from vegetables?" I ask politely, not bothering to look up at them.

"You were watching me." Malfoy states blandly. I jump at his voice, the deep timbre betraying no emotion. I glance at him: drinking in his Adonis looks, forcibly not shying away from his towering height and immense amount of presence. I don't want to seem intimidated but I can't make eye contact with him without feeling his lips against mine, his hands grabbing onto my hair. Nor can I get the image of a screaming, broken-hearted Pansy thumping at his chest out of my head.

"I just want some sweetcorn." I reiterate, wanting him to bugger off before I get roped into conversation with him. On the contrary, my admittance makes him turn more towards me, a wry smirk pulling up the corners of his cruel lips.

"Perhaps you should've got your sweetcorn beforehand, instead of watching me and Pansy break up." _Oh shit. He saw me eavesdropping in and breaking his enchantment._ I consider playing dumb but I decide that that will just anger him.

"How did you know I was watching? Could've been some other girl in a blue dress." His hand snakes out quickly and tugs on the puffed out floaty skirt of my periwinkle dress making me stumble forwards a little and he rolls the material between his finger and thumb. He keeps his eyes focused on the expensive material when he rhetorics: "Did you think I wouldn't recognise the magical signature of the one person who was focused enough to break my enchantment?"

"Your enchantment?" I gulp. He lifts his face revealing stormy grey eyes and an unkind twist of his lips. "Yes _my spell._ I have to do something to distract me from boredom."

"You created a _spell?_ That's impossible! You're just a fourth year student, only seasoned Wizards can do that- and even then only once in a blue moon." I'm stunned and awed, if what he says is true. It was incredibly rare for new spells to be created and successfully performed.

"Consider me flattered." His tone indicates he is not even a tiny bit impressed by my praise.

The silence stretches between us and I get a little nervous so I turn around to reach for the bowl of sweet corn. Bad move. Within a miniscule second his hand is fastened around my wrist, long tapered fingers digging into my veins _hard,_ and ruthlessly spinning me back around. The other hand pinches the back of my neck for no apparent reason- perhaps simply out of spite for me who knows? The thought makes me feel a little more freer.

"Didn't your filthy parents ever teach you that it's impolite to turn your back on someone during a conversation." His fingers dig deeper and I yelp out a cry as his nails break the skin.

"Let go of me." I growl, attempting to yank my hand back but to no avail. He grins but it reminds me of a wolf: all teeth and no humanity.

"It's not very nice to pry." He adds casually as if he isn't cutting into my wrist with his nails, making blood in half-crescents well up and stain the edges of his blazer.

"Nor is it nice to touch what isn't yours." I hiss, the edges of my vision swimming. He seems to realise the implication and his face would be comical if it wasn't in reaction to my reference to our kiss.

First his skin pales to a ghostly corpse-coloured shade and then his mouth makes an O shape and finally his hand is wrenched from my wrist so quickly it's a blur of movement. He recovers his cool relatively quickly to say he'd been caught off guard and a mean smirk graces his lips. I don't notice the steadying breath he takes nor the brief flare of pain in his eyes. Possibly because of the poisonous words which roll off his tongue like honey. But they are anything but sweet.

"I would never touch a filthy whore like you."

Now, in retrospect, I can't quite explain my actions here. One could call it a brief flight of lunacy which made me incredibly impulsive and reckless. Others would rightly assume that I was simply reacting as a bitter, confused, resentful fifteen year old girl who'd just had her first kiss accuse her of being a 'filthy whore'. Pretty harsh considering he'd stolen my first ever kiss and I'd had no such romantic contact before nor immediately after. I think- the most hurtful thing about it was- I truly believed that he didn't even like me. He'd just exploited my generosity and willingness to hear out his problems (and oh Godric, did that boy have problems) in order to ravish my sweet innocent self into the dizzy mess that stood before him.

Without any thought, I lifted my plate- quickly and mechanically as if a learnt movement like the box-step or the cha-cha-cha- and smush the full plate of chips and beans and steak pie and mash and gravy and chicken nuggets into the front of his suit and with a vicious smirk of my own I spread the food all down the breast pocket of his suit jacket, onto the crisply pressed white shirt which likely is the equivalent price of my little blue house in London. After the food is stained as much as possible I drop the plate onto his black shiny shoes. I lean up onto my tiptoes, in spite of the added height my stilettos grant me, and whisper directly in his ear, my lips brushing his skin ever so slightly.

"You've already touched a filthy whore like me. And if you continue to do so I'll drag you to play in the dirt with me."

It's brief, a fleeting flicker of fear, but it's there in his eyes as I lean back and lick my wounds which are still bleeding. I think of something even more ludicrous and act upon it, gathering some of my blood from my seeping wrist onto my fingers and (before he can work out what I'm doing) I smear it on his cheek in an almost-maternal movement. His eyes widen and morph; blue-grey as the ocean, murky waters reflected in his troubled gaze. His restraint is straining against its leashes. I can tell by the growl lurking in his throat, the way his eyes make hell' fires look like a good holiday destination and the disgust and lust-both equally frightening emotions- splashed across his face. This all empowers me. I feel strong and capable for once, in his perimeter.

"Think about that the next time you decide to take something from me."

...

Later that evening Viktor finds me in the stairwell of the Owlery. I'm tracing the initials of my grandad on the dog tag which hangs limply around my neck. I don't notice him until he clears his throat and sits down beside me.

"Are you okay?" he asks me, gently.

I meet his eyes, they're warm and understanding, the exact opposite of the frigid cold eyes my enemy possesses. "I heard you haf an argument wiv Drago Malfoy."

 _Ah, of course. By now the spectacle will have spread like wildfire. After all, it's not every day someone has enough stupid courage to smear food all over a Noble Pureblood's fine dress robes._ I chuckle a little at the mispronunciation of Draco's name and his bashful smile makes an appearance.

"He is trouble." Viktor continues, his tone sounding more confessionary as I sit and listen in the dusky twilight of the small alcove. "I noticed him earlier vhen ve vere dancing. I am sorry Hermy-own-ninny, I feel my talk is vhat made him approach you." I decide then and there that I cannot tell anyone of the scene I witnessed between him and Pansy. I'm not entirely sure why but my heart aches a little with sympathy for the Pureblooded princess who undoubtedly is feeling unmoored like a boat washed into the gaping sea by an unexpected current. Even in my first few years in Hogwarts it had been readily accepted that Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy would one day be wed. Their noble families complimented one another and together, even with baby fat and the whine of spoilt inexperienced children tinging their prepubescent voices, it was taken as fact that the two would one day become regal inheritors of their aristocratic families' legacy.

After I'd ruined Draco's expensive suit and bloodied his face in the most unconventional manner, my pride had waned and I'd been filled with shame. Added to that I'd noticed the stares, the hushed whispers from the tables nearby who had caught sight, but likely not sound, of our mishap. And so I'd fled. I'd run like Cinderella had done in all those fairy tale stories my French relatives had been so fond of telling me as a child, as they tucked me into my bed blanketed in the City of Lights. Unlike Cinderella my prince was actually just a thieving prejudiced wolf in disguise, a wolf too cowardly to be true to himself.

"It's alright Viktor, you have nothing to feel sorry for." I murmur, resting my head against one broad shoulder, internally chiding myself for the immaturity of my actions earlier and stooping to such low levels when around the so-called 'Slytherin Prince'. As much as I feel sorry for myself I can't dispute the fact that Draco Malfoy has succeeded in slithering his way into the recesses of my mind.

 _Perhaps it's because I'm now aware of the twisted logic behind the Slytherin hierarchy and he clearly cared enough about his lapdog Nott to keep his sexuality hidden from the rest of the school. Maybe it's the fact that he's unhappy at his betrothal and bitter about the predetermined role he's being groomed to fulfil by his family which makes him more humane. Or maybe it's because he seemed so torn between desire and self-loathing when he stood too close to me at the buffet table, mere hours after our kiss in the hidden corridor. Godric forbid it's the latter which is making him take up so much of my time._

I'm lulled back into the present when I feel Viktor's hand smoothing my hair back, gently combing his fingers through the strands in such a careful way so as to not mess up the elegant yet elaborate hairstyle _._ It's comforting to me as it reminds me of the way my mother stroked my hair during the bad nights at home, when worries of my childhood bully Tommy Brown would keep my over-alert mind on edge, or when nightmares of ignorant schoolchildren and illegible tests would make me wake up screaming for my family… Yelling for someone who would hold me like a child and tell me that everything was going to be okay. That it was just a dream.

I'm not entirely sure how long we sat there with me leaning against him, my mind churning and analysing and dismissing theories on what to do next, how to avoid Malfoy from now until graduation, why he acted in such an aggressive manner when I turned away from him, what our kiss would spell out for the future (especially if Harry or Ron caught wind of it). But eventually when we were covered in darkness and the Ball had long since come to a close I realised then that it would only cause disaster if I intervened any further in the matters of Malfoy, regardless of how intriguing they may be. The congealed blood and slight scabs on my wrist were a red flag and I still couldn't shake the image of Pansy beating her fists against his immovable chest, her looking like a broken doll having been tossed aside.

The clamour of drunken students trying to be quiet (hence the intermittent shushing and giggling) yet failing miserably at it reaches our ears up in the Owlery Tower and I peek out of the window just in time to spot a naked Seamus staggering cockily up to the edge of the Black Lake. Dean Thomas trails after him looking smug at having won his bet that Seamus would fail to kiss a Veela at the ball. I watch with the crowd as he bellows up at the sky something practically unintelligible (since apparently when drunk his Irish accent gets stronger) and I gape as he cannonballs into the dark water like the courageous idiot he truly is. Not ten seconds after, Professor McGonagall's angry voice can be heard shouting for the kids to clear off and "Detention for you Mister Finnegan! And you two Mr Thomas! Making stupid bets with one another is a violation of our school rules and it was especially foolish of you to do so when we have other schools visiting us. You are supposed to act as ambassadors to this school not buffoons! What will your parents say?" I tune out the rest of the scolding speech (and Seamus' howlings at the cold temperature of the Lake) and with one last hug goodbye I make my way down the spiral staircase to return to the Gryffindor Tower. For all of the events which occurred which made my head reel, it must be said that the Yule Ball was indeed an unforgettable one.

…

Boxing Day was when I realised that I'd been mislead. I'd been tricked into a false sense of security yet again by the quick-handed silver-eyed Slytherin who had become the bane of my existence. He'd warned me, I realised in retrospect; he'd warned me… _ **Being a Slytherin is all about ruthlessness and cunning. If you can't make the masses fear and respect you, you'll end up the dirt under someone's boot.**_ I'd been reckless and impulsive and I'd had to pay the price.

The morning of Boxing Day came pretty much like any other day. I'd been awoken by Lavender sneaking back in during the early hours of the morning with her hair tousled and her staple headband askew. I pretended to be asleep since as much as I'd begun to warm to the girl, we weren't close enough to gossip about her clandestine make out sessions with Ron. Nor did I want to know. Afterwards I'd slept until late morning, the boozy fruit punch taking its toll, and then I'd mustered enough strength to shower and get ready for the day ahead. Since it was Christmas and the weather was still frosty I'd decided to wear Mrs Weasley's hand knitted lilac jumper, jeans and a pair of really fluffy slipper socks. I'd picked up the new pocket-sized 1984 novel and meandered down to the Great Hall, utterly oblivious to what would befall me.

As soon as I stepped into the transformed Hall I took a moment to marvel at the efficiency the teachers had used in putting the settings back to normal while keeping the majority of the Christmas hangings and decorations intact. I felt a small pang of loss at the white marble floor which imitated ice having vanished, the mundane wood replacing it- as well as how the snowflake charm had worn off and merged back into the normal sky illusion. Since it was late morning the majority of people present were elder-year students who had been drinking the prior night and so there weren't many pupils from my year group or below. While doing my usual surveyal of the tables (despite having gone to Hogwarts for three years and a few months the novelty of magic never quite wore off) and customary Ghosts floating around, I sensed eyes watching me. And sure enough as soon as I glanced towards the Slytherin table there were multiple eyes fixed on me _glaring._ For a brief moment I was taken aback, until I remembered my conflict with Malfoy the night before and reconciled with the fact that they'd seen me publicly humiliate their leader. _I swear on Salazar's grave he's got them so whipped they'd wear dog collars if he so much as asked._

It was a bit daunting to say the least. Especially when I caught sight of him and his personal posse: Pansy glaring daggers at me through her red-rimmed puffy eyes, Nott's mouth curled into a snarl (truly looking like Malfoy's guarding bulldog), Blaise sat beside him smiling placidly, unfazed by the hostility he was surrounded by aimed at myself and of course there was Malfoy himself sitting proudly and sternly, his face an inscrutable mask. Foolishly I waved at the foursome, wiggling my fingers in a casual gesture. Blaise bursted out laughing, clearly appalled by the fearless way in which I'd reacted while being hated so strongly by his classmates. Malfoy stands abruptly, startling me and causing Slytherins to lean forwards at the edge of their seats, eyes greedy for drama, lips parted expectantly, holding their breath. And they needn't wait long.

He stalks towards me with the grace of a predator and the pace of someone who's been thoroughly riled up. My eyes flicker towards the staff table and the tension coiled in my gut unwinds slightly when I realise that there's still a couple of staff members there to witness whatever exchange was about to occur. Then, all of a sudden, I have no more time to wonder or fret or make an escape because he's upon me. Six and whatever feet tall towering over me with a scowl so fierce it made me wish that I'd skipped breakfast and hung out with Viktor instead (who was woefully absent). It was odd. Viktor usually lingered in the Great Hall at breakfast time so that we could quickly exchange a meetup time to hang out (without having to worry that his ever-present fangirls would catch on since it was hidden in the commotion of breakfast time).

"I always knew you Gryffindors were brave-" Malfoy's voice is low and riddled with unbridled violence. He glances pointedly towards a still slightly sodden Seamus trailing into the Great Hall behind me amid catcalls and boisterous comments, as he does his own Finnegan version of the walk of shame.

His dark mercury eyes latch back onto mine "-I just never knew you had absolutely no sense of self-preservation." I involuntarily gulp, the boldness from yesterday having dissipated like smoke from a chimney, leaving my legs feeling shaky and the tightness in my gut clenching further.

He leans closer and for a moment I'm scared he's going to kiss me. But no, of course not, he wouldn't dare do something so radical in a hall full of serpents when his reputation was already at stake. Instead he mutters three words. Three little words which turned out to be utterly soul-destroying in the most ironic way. It is at that precise moment I come to the abrupt conclusion that I've royally fucked up.

He leans away from me and I feel the oppressive glamour which shielded him and Pansy from other people's eyes cloak us. Within a second my wand's in my hand, the events of the last three years having caused me to keep it within easy reach in a wand holster tucked up my sleeve. Malfoy's wand is in his hand and when our eyes next lock there's an understanding which we both share.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Stupefy!"

I dodge the red blast of the stunning spell, quickly catching on that he was duelling to win, not to play fair. He deflects my disarming spell like he would bat off a fly and quickly shoots off a list of increasingly complex and Dark spells, some of which I don't even recognise. The Glamour which he'd created encompasses us both and stretches to accommodate the space as we duel meaning we're hidden from view. My heartbeat charges in my chest as I feel a flare of pain when a Dark curse strikes my arm and leaves a nasty red gash on my shoulder. I retaliate with some spells we've been taught in order to disarm and distract your opponent. When I levitate a bowl of porridge above his head, he waves it away with the broad sweep of his hand and stalks closer to me, chuckling.

"What's wrong? Is Golden Girl afraid of getting her hands dirty?" he mocks, his resentment at my cool exterior blatantly apparent. He fires off another jinx, this one taking the shape of a charging bull which almost breaks through my shielding charm with its ferocity. He follows it up with a cutting spell, something we learnt back in Second Year which teachers had told us never to use against another person, only for preparing food or potions. The cutting hex breaks through my shield and makes another deep wound just under my collarbone. I hiss from the pain yet bite my lip as soon as I see a sick smile bloom on his lips when he hears the incensed sound.

"You're just upset that I won't stoop to your lowly level." I spit at him, content when his smile morphs into a snarl.

I use the levitation spell again and this time he's too slow to stop the fruit salad and plate of eggs and bacon and orange juice from spoiling his fresh new clothes. He doesn't seem as perturbed as he was yesterday which makes me fear his reprimand.

"That the best you can do?" he taunts, flicking a slice of kiwi nonchalantly from his shoulder. His eyes meet mine again: "And here I thought you were the Brightest Witch of her age." The dig, as childish as it is, gets to me. It coerces me into firing off more creative spells and jinxes. Ones which I'd discovered while reading books in the Restricted Section in my leisure time. Spells which were strictly prohibited.

He shields and deflects a lot of them: the more infantile jelly-legs jinx and the eat-slugs hex waved away as easily as batting an eyelid, the cutting, bruising and boil-inducing spells having a strain on him and making sweat begin to bead at his temples. I approach with each magical wave of my wand, becoming more and more frustrated by his apparent aptitude in duelling and the fact that none of my attacks were making a real impact. At this point I'm too absorbed in the battle to wonder whether anyone had broken the enchantment Malfoy had created, or to check whether Gryffindors or Slytherins had seen the commotion and if so how they might be responding to it.

A spell, a Dark one which I'd only seen mentioned once, came to my mind. I fired another cutting hex which only mildly grazed Malfoy's side and then used his brief glance downwards as the perfect opportunity to test the spell out. It was a fire charm and it required me to draw a serpentine S shape in the air and jab my wand like a swordsman with a latin-scripted shout. There had been no image of the end result so we were both equally stunned when a magnificent phoenix emerged in orange and blue fire, elegantly rising as if from the flame itself and diving straight towards Malfoy.

His mouth gaped open and his shield charm shattered like broken glass the fire engulfing him completely for a few seconds which felt like eternity. I heard a pained yell behind the barrier of flame and subconsciously noticed that the magical fire alarm system had been triggered since conjured sprinklers gushed water which submerged the entire Hall. A few older year students screamed and rushed out, preempting an attack of some sort, perhaps the Death Eaters to come marching into the school like they did at the World Cup Tournament Camping Grounds. The few teachers present commandeered the children to be quiet and orderly and leave the Great Hall in a structured fashion, to which the kids ignored.

But I wasn't really aware of any of this since I was submerged in a thick cloud of smoke and ash and was only aware enough to freak the hell out over whether I'd just murdered Draco Malfoy.

The Hall is mostly empty by the time the smoke clears enough for me to, coughing and sputtering, check where Draco was. In a climatic way which made my hands curl into defensive fists and my heart stop for a second, he walks out of the clogging smoke. His outer robe is entirely burnt off, the black fabric in scraps on the floor the ends of his hair slightly singed and ash makes his blonde hair a silvery grey to match his steely eyes. The water has drowned out the fire and I feel a slight twinge of relief at the fact that I can't see any visible burn marks. In fact I'm so astonished and relieved that I hadn't just killed someone in cold blood that I don't realise what he's doing until it's too late.

My legs crumple under his immobilising spell and my numb hand drops my wand which clatters to the wooden floor. He walks slowly but surely towards me, a wicked smirk gracing his lips his uniform clinging to his form like a second skin. _Or perhaps,_ my half-delirious mind conjures, _like a snake's exo-skeleton. His scales._ The emerald green emblem stitched onto his shirt breast pocket sticks out like a sore thumb. I'm at his feet, at his mercy and once again- too late- I remember the cautioning tale he'd told me not too long ago.

 _ **I don't mind the violence. In fact, I thrive in it. The decadence, the satiation of getting exactly what you want, the savage pleasure of seeing a person kneel at your feet, quaking in fear. It's a beautiful artform.**_

As much as I mean to stay strong, to remain fearless while disarmed, I can't help but feel weak and vulnerable in his presence. He fingers his wand idly, the smirk on his mouth conveying the satisfaction he's receiving from seeing me, the treasured 'Golden Girl', submissive under his rule.

"Now, where would a good girl like you learn a nasty spell like that?" he muses aloud, a hue of pride staining his callous voice. "Is it perchance from that bumbling hot-shot who looks at you like a goddamned puppy?" My forehead creases in confusion, wondering what he has against Viktor, but I remain silent.

"Surely not. They don't teach those sorts of spells at Durmstrang no matter how tough and Dark Karkarov may pretend his school is." He shrugs, the boyish gesture an extreme contrast to the vicious joy gleaming in his eyes. He pauses in front of me and crouches down to eye-level. "Cat got your tongue, huh? Funny, you didn't seem very quiet while we were duelling. Nor when you decided to ruin my dress robes last night." He tuts at me in a way reminiscent of an old lady scolding her grandchildren but there's something much more malevolent in it now. Each click of his tongue sounds like a gunshot in the abrasively silent surroundings. Each click makes me flinch.

His eyes peruse my face then the calculating observation drops lower and I long to slap the smirk right off that self-righteous face of his. His gaze snags on the silver around my neck and I remember that I'm still wearing the dog tag my Granddad wore during the War. His fingers brush against my skin as he fishes out the cool metal tags using the spiderweb fine chain to pull it out from under my jumper's neckline. He smooths the pad of his thumb across the engraved initials and then I can't keep up my silence any longer.

"Let go of it," I plead "That's an important part of my heritage." At first I think his rebuttal will be cruel and derogatory, perhaps centring on my heritage being filthy and stained or- if he recognised what Muggles called this jewellery- taking joy in the idea that I wore dog tags, following after the animal itself. Instead he looks quizzical.

"These are your initials are they not?"

"They're my granddad's." I admit reluctantly. "He was a War Hero. The tags are what he earned serving in the military." He absorbs this reflectively. I feel a sense of relief that he's not going to stoop so low as to desecrate the memory of a loved one.

That is until he curls his hand around the chain and yanks. _Hard._ So hard, in fact, that the chain propels me forwards and my lips catch on his. Although I'm unsure as to whether he intended to hurt me or kiss me, regardless of original intent he latches on once our lips are locked. He bites hard on my lower lip as if to punish for me for the harsh caution I told him last night. " _ **You've already touched a filthy whore like me. And if you continue to do so I'll drag you to play in the dirt with me."**_ He seemingly doesn't care as he soothes the bite with a gentle lave of his tongue. The kiss deepening and forming a battle of wills almost. A pull and push between desire and hatred. Fire and ice.

The moment is broken by him breaking it off for air. His eyes so dark they almost look black, his pupils blown up wide with lust. Though I'm immobilised from the waist down I feel power and control over him: the Malfoy Prince who refuses to be tamed by anybody knelt before me like a priest begging for salvation to be granted to him by a higher power. As if in vengeance, he snaps the war memorabilia from my neck and hisses:"You can't tell anybody what just happened. If anyone asks we fought over that childish tantrum you threw last night and a fire spell set off the smoke alarm. If not your precious necklace will be destroyed and I will set Pansy against you." A laugh, bitterly amused but also exasperated bubbles up out of me and fills the crevice between us.

"Really? Pansy? If I'm not afraid to fight you, what makes you think I'll be petrified of her?" He grits his teeth in antagonism. "Don't test me, Hermione. You need to stay away from me." My snarky comment dies on my tongue. His brows are furrowed in a grave expression and for once I heed his warning. I nod. Once. Then I jut my chin up proudly and fiercely.

"I want my necklace back." He traces the line of my cheekbone, mesmerised when his finger curves round and cups my chin, eyes lost in the seam of my lips.

"We can't always have what we want though, can we?" is all he says before he stands up and exits with as much predatorial grace as he first approached me with.

Godric knows how long afterwards but the immobilising spell finally wears off and I'm left knelt down in the smoky rubble, my head spinning with questions and longing for answers. He warned me that he'd have to retaliate, at least semi-publicly, in order to restore his rightful place in the Slytherin hierarchy. He'd even told me with those three little words before we fought that he was sorry. The fact that I have the power, Godric knows where from, to reduce the proud aristocratic heir to a sympathetic, humane and wanting boy should fill me with confidence... not the dread which sinks like a stone to the bottom of my stomach. His jealousy over Krum should make me feel like I have some sort of control over the Slytherin Prince. Instead, his feelings and dire warning to stay away from him since something was starting (perhaps something linked to the Death Eaters or the Triwizard Tournament) which could end in someone's downfall made me feel helpless and in the dark- a feeling which I loathed almost as much as I hated feeling illogical or how I felt around _him_.

That day it wasn't my dog tags he stole… It went much deeper than that. For the possession of my familial treasure was merely symbolic for the way he stripped my identity in that one moment and made me question if I knew the girl who I was becoming. How could I reconcile with the girl who believed she was absolutist in her ethical stance and yet bent so easily to the will of someone so… Morally dubious.

No. That was the day I lost my dignity. He took it like the thief he is.


End file.
